


The Magister's Apprentice

by BlondieLovesBroody (so_dunwall)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Multi, Roleplay Logs, Shameless Smut, Smut, apprentice anders AU, dubcon warnings apply, tevinter sure is a place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 117,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_dunwall/pseuds/BlondieLovesBroody
Summary: RP Fic.  Anders flees to Tevinter, hoping to leave the Circle and its Templars behind for good.  AU where Anders is apprenticed to Danarius in the years preceding Fenris's encounter with the Fog Warriors and his eventual escape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long-running RP that started in 2011, when Inquisition was but a twinkle in Bioware's eye. Blame canon discrepancies on that.
> 
> Moving this over from Tumblr to escape the Blight.

Hadriana was a mistake.  
While his peers often complained of their apprentices, she had simply become insufferable. She never took her lessons seriously, was rather ill-talented for the ones she did with no signs of progress, and was far more interested in the prestige being a senator’s apprentice gave. As if she hadn’t enough of it already, Danarius had chosen her for her prosperous family. It was only now, so well into the venture, that he realized he’d only selected the most spoiled of the bunch. Her family was stricken with the expulsion, but the looks from his peers were what bothered him. Another would have to be chosen, quickly. And yet nobody looked promising. The moment word quietly came, that slavers had captured something he might be interested in but couldn’t transport it to the city, he leapt at the distraction. Only now, to again, question his choices.   
Fenris had stepped out of the carriage first, posture as perfect as he was trained to be, eyes alertly focusing about as he sidesteps out of the way, though nobody was out in the light muggy rain if they could help it. For all the slave’s vigilance, the only thing Danarius notices is the mud already caking to the elf’s feet, and he barely bothers to hide his poor mood as he strides forward, Fenris shutting the door and smoothly turning to fall in step, to the nearest waiting slaver. “Show me this prize you’ve insisted to drag me here for.”

The slavers were base rabble, but fortunately, most of them were gathered around the small fort’s bonfire and staying well out of the way. Elagabulus, their fence and fixer, was Danarius’s contact with the slaving company, and the man came forward with a pair of elven slaves, making a show of hustling in his disheveled robes. The slaves move with bodies stooped, heads down, and they are clad in nothing but breechclothes, their sun-brown skin smeared with sweat and dirt that doesn’t do enough to hide the whipmarks on their backs. Knowing their role, they tend to the carriage driver and the horses, ready with a pail of clear water from the river not far below.  
“Your eminence!” Elagabulus blusters, sweat dripping from his round, red face. “You honor us, of course, and we would not have sent a messenger to interrupt your solemn duties if we did not hope to make the journey worth your while.” Elagabulus drops to his knees in the mud, reaching out in a clumsy, shaking attempt to take Danarius’s hand and kiss his ring.

The one tradition he could do without and Danarius offers his hand limply, half-turning and sliding his gaze away towards their surroundings as if to check it after Fenris already had, though instead to hide his curling lip of mild disgust. Unfortunately his eyes only move to land upon the local slaves, the marks on their backs giving them just as much a filthy appearance as if they’d been rolling in horse stalls all day. He didn’t even buy stock like that for meat, much less use them. Nothing for their appearances, and didn’t tend to survive long. It was worth the extra coin procuring wild stock that hadn’t been broken to spoiling. They had a good will about them.  
So he didn’t exactly have much hope for this lot, but Elagabulus had served him surprisingly good stock in the past, and for a bit extra promised to show him the best first, alert him if something interesting came in.  
Apparently something had. But his patience was wearing thin already, with this cold that pierced to his bones so quickly he shimmered a haze of warmth about his thick winter robes. “So I would hope.”

“We lost half a dozen men subduing him,” and Elagabulus is quite detached about that fact. It’s six heads he won’t have to cover wages or rations for until they get some new blood at the end of the month. “And quite honestly I do not believe we can keep him long if we cannot find an interested party.” The interior of the fortress is as rank and damp as the outside, with the smell of smoke and human waste. Most of the slaves are kept in pens but some of the special cases are here, behind iron bars or chained near piles of wet straw. Two slaves stand guard over a man-sized cage, and inside, a man lays on his side, back to the room, wrists bound behind him with strong cord so tight his hands are puffy and purple. His lank hair is so dirty one cannot even guess at the color, but his naked back is lean and strong, even if the shadows of his ribs show he’s been underfed for a while. “This barbarian is a mage, likely an apostate from the south fleeing their templars. We took him with a sleeping poison and haven’t risked keeping him awake long enough to question him. He is… his power quite eclipses my own.” Elagabulus says it with a wheedling tone. He can swallow his irritation and jealousy if it means he might make a sale.

Danarius stops a good several feet before the bars, the barely noticed but comfortable flash of Fenris’ hair as the elf stops at his side, less for his own safety and moreso to keep himself from becoming overly dirtied so soon after arrival. The remaining residue already crawls over his ringed hand with an unbearable need to wash it. But he pushes the thought aside, and narrows his eyes thoughtfully at the pile of flesh inside. But there’s nothing to see that impresses him as it is. “How long will it take for your poison to wear off?” With the question the senator turns his head towards his guard, and Fenris doesn’t twitch as his master sizes him up against the man in the cage, should something turn foul. The elf simply stares ahead, towards the captured apostate, with an odd sense of confidence despite the seemingly emotionless, finely tuned features.

“We can rouse him, your eminence. No need to wait, just a moment.” Elagabulus fumbles with a ring of keys at his belt, metal rattling until he finds the large iron key to this cage. The lock creaks and the hinges groan, and the slaver motions one of his guards inside to fetch the merchandise. The unconscious man does stir slightly as he’s handled like a heavy sack of grain, lifted by rough hands under his arms and hauled out of the cage with his heels dragging on the ground. In the middle of the room, with enough space for more guards to gather, he props the captive’s head up while Elagabulus passes a en open vial under his nose.  
The man awakens, gasping and shuddering, heels kicking at the ground in an uncoordinated effort to scrabble backwards from his captors, one of whom cuffs him across the face with a gauntleted fist. Even groggy from being drugged, the gaze that fixes on the masked mercenary is sharp.

The idea that he could make use of this scrambling, pathetic thing still seems ridiculous. At least the wild elves have their wits about them, but he tries to remind himself what Fenris initially looked like, directly after the competition so long ago. There’s hope this huddling beast may clean up yet. If this proves to not be a waste of time, anyway.  
Those eyes, color common but full of intense clarity, finally piques Danarius’ interest.  
With a loud clearing of his throat the senator takes a couple steps closer, untouched fist edged to cover his lips with the sound, Fenris at his heel and both of them coming forward and separating from the rest of the crowd that had gathered. He shoots a glance, short and stern to the guard, and delivers a curt, “Untie him.” before turning his attention back to the bare man in front of him. “Impress me, if you want to live.” And he doesn’t expect much quarrel with Elagabulus. It would save him the trouble.

The guard standing over the captive hesitates, but bends down after a sharp look from Elagabulus, cutting through the tough cords binding his wrists. And for a moment, nothing happens. The man sits there, head bowed, slowly bringing his hands around before him and rubbing at the weals on his wrists while the guards stand with their hands on their sword hilts. And then, he’s on his feet faster than he should be, hands out to either side, and each of the guards closest to him scream as their armor melts to white-hot slag on their bodies, flesh dissolving under it with a rancid stink.  
There are crossbow bolts flying towards him, but they shatter against a bubble of force that appears and dissipates in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately, the only way to the exit is through Danarius, and as the enraged captive lunges forward, the magister’s bodyguard is there, face to face with him.

The senator was hoping that his words would inspire an escape attempt, the best test he could ask for, any hesitation and exhaustion killed by desperation. But what the mage does choose surprises him, pleasantly, and sparks a new idea.  
But not one he can dwell on now and he takes a small step back, though not from anything remotely resembling fear. “Stop him.”  
Fenris strides forward, a true arm of the magister and with the same air to his light and assured step, and reaches to the oversized sword strapped to his back in the same breath. The blade slips from the sling, handle pulled over and past his head, but instead of winding up for the expected heavy swing he simply tips the pommel down, takes hold of the blade itself with a bare palm framed by dark metal, and thrusts forward, aim low.

It makes no sense. It makes no sense for an elf the size of this one to wield a blade that large in the first place. That he wields it like it was made of balsa wood is beyond impressive, it’s absurd. The captive doesn’t break his stride when Fenris reaches for his blade. He raises an arm to block the expected swing, magic coalescing around his arm into a heavy gauntlet made of stone. But the impact he braces for doesn’t come. The captive halts, the end of Fenris’s sword several inches deep in his guts. The look in his eyes when he raises them is alarmed and somewhat… disgusted. As if, in other circumstances, he’d cry foul. That was certainly not fair at all.

The deep, mossy eyes that meet the man’s gaze are neutral on the matter, fair never entered the equation but the win wasn’t something the elf seemed inclined to gloat over, either. The round pommel is lifted up and away, a firm grip catching the hilt when it comes back within reach, and for a moment the white haired elf is ready to take another swing, crack the blade against the intended defense that had built up, but he doesn’t, instead simply holds his sword, blade at his shoulder and critical but silent gaze weighing the man over before sheathing his weapon again and straightening. When he stills once more Danarius passes out a weighty leather bag from his robes and drops it for the nearest guard to fetch and deliver to Elagabulus’ hands, a smile curling his lips. “This is more than he’s worth. Consider it further compensation to tell no one of this and bring any other… curiosities directly to me.”

The captive is on his knees, clutching the wound in his belly, yet still alert and wary, eyes on the bag of coin that drops to the ground. The guards give him a wide berth as one of them fetches the coinpurse for the slaver-mage. The captive’s magic still swirls and eddies and gathers around his hands, and his labored breathing eases as the wound knits. His gaze shifts then from the slavers, to Danarius, his eyes questioning although he holds his tongue. Apparently he knows he’s in a situation where it would be better not to press his luck too far. In the background of his awareness he can hear Elagabulus bowing a scraping, giving his obsequious gratitude and assurances that he’ll do just as Danarius says.

And with the new thing bought and paid for, there is nothing the magister wants to do more than leave this wretched place. “Bind him and place him in the carriage, we leave within the hour.” Danarius turns with a wave of his hand to dispense the idling guards, the elf at his side only half turning, eyes still wary on the new slave behind them. Well enough, as his master pauses and turns back, giving the man a final, mildly disgusted look-over. “And for heaven’s sake /give him a bath./”  
Normally, he’d simply throw a rope to the back of the transport and have the new purchase walk after, but he has.. ideas, this time. There’s no need to waste money when Fenris has proven that he can watch this mage perfectly well.

Danarius’s wretchedly dirty new “thing” scuffles with the guards who come to bind him. He manages to plant his hand in the center of one mercenary’s chest and shove him off, but two more take his place. After that, the slave seems to give only a token resistance as he’s hauled to his feet and out into the fort grounds. Elagabulus continues his wheedling gratitude, pausing now and again to snap off orders to the mercenaries, at work cleaning up the damage the mage-slave had done. Morale seems to be split between resentment at being subjected to so many risks, and relief that at least it seems to be done with.   
It isn’t long before the slavers bring Danarius’s new purchase to the carriage, freshly scrubbed with lye soap, dressed in a roughspun tunic, and with his wrists bound tightly behind him.

As soon as the new slave is deposited by the carriage Fenris steps forward without a command save an approving look from Danarius after the elf begins to move, opening the door with one hand while he reaches back to the rope at the man’s wrists and hauls him into the carriage none too gently, clawed gauntlets scratching against skin. He’s shoved to the opposite carriage seats, the elf’s palm flat on his chest with the same easy force that had been used to wield the blade behind him, which Fenris then unstraps from himself and sets aside. After some remaining formalities Danarius steps in to join them with a wave to the driver, and moments after the door closes and the magister sits at Fenris’ side the carriage lurches forward, driver muffled as he calls out at the horses to get moving.  
The senator sighs, heavily, as if being in this place has tried his patience much too far, before he looks to his new acquisition with some narrow-eyed, quiet interest.

The guards are happy to finally step away from their dangerous captive as Fenris hauls the man into the carriage. One of the guards takes his helmet off as he steps back, showing himself to be pallid and sweating heavily under the customary facemask. Danarius’s new purchase puts up no particular resistance to Fenris, but as the carriage begins to roll away he’s making more effort to peer out the window back at the slaver camp than to pay heed to Danarius.  
A muffled explosion and sudden cacophony of horrified shouts explains why. Apparently the slave had managed to put a fairly horrible hex on one of the guards before he was bound. He sits back, looking darkly satisfied with himself.

Danarius glances behind them with a small start, though perhaps not enough of one, the reaction more akin to if a gnat had buzzed at him. But when he settles back into place it’s with a wider smile, distinct with it’s unexpected pleasure. “My, that was convenient. With any luck you’ve killed their leader.” Even if not, most of the guards remaining will likely cut their losses. Nobody to know where this man came from.  
Fenris doesn’t look quite as pleased, unafraid but glaring, far more ready to strike than he had been moments ago.  
“Now, do you have a name or am I going to have to make one for you, my pet?”

The captive’s brows lift in puzzled surprise. He’d expected to be chastised, probably beaten for what he’d done, but instead the man across from him, the man who bought him, is smiling. "My name is Anders,“ he says, answering readily and, from his tone, without guile or rancor. He almost misses the way Danarius addresses him, the man says it so smoothly. While he knows he should feel patronized, he can’t quite manage to.

Just as subtly the hands calmly placed in the magister’s lap draw together, fingers knitting with thumb and pointer meeting the tip of their mirror. For a time nothing happens, Danarius in silent though not angered or worried thought, the elf glaring at him with a faint unease a bodyguard would only be expected to have after someone proved he might try blowing up the senator, the carriage rattling in it’s well oiled joints, horses clomping and panting in the mildly unpleasant weather outside, and farmland drifting by the windows.  
When Danarius finally speaks again, it’s with a small cant upward of his chin, gaze suddenly far more intimidating than he was a moment ago. "If I make you my apprentice, will you do as I say, or turn into an unpredictable loose canon I can’t find any use for?”  
At that, the tone more musing than question, Fenris’ eyes jump to Danarius, unable to outright question the man’s motives but clearly surprised under the neutral mask.

Anders’ jaw drops slightly from that question, or perhaps proposition. And perhaps to his credit, he actually thinks before he answers, surprise giving way to a hint of scepticism which then mitigates itself. “There is a catch to this, there must be. You’re offering to take a lot of risk on my behalf. Sir… or, Magister… if you treat me fairly I’ll follow you. I would, however, like to know what you expect to get out of this in return.” Anders’ hair is beginning to dry and the wisps around his face are showing their strawberry blonde hue. Cleaned up, the captive mage is strikingly handsome, with almond-shaped brown eyes and a remarkably fine jawline. He glances at Fenris now and then, wary and surreptitious. 

“Treat you fairly?” The smile on Danarius’ lips crack open into a hearty, almost cruel chuckle, the edges of the sound as deep and smooth as honey before it fades just as quickly. “I believe I’ve done more than that already. But, if you must know.” He shifts in place, the movement seeming to somehow calm Fenris into returning full watch on Anders. “I’ve grown weary of rich children with no true desire to learn. You appear to be a rather fortuitous opportunity.”

That laugh, the shrewdness in Danarius’s eyes, the utter authority of the man, send a chill into Anders’ gut. He looks away, staring out the carriage window to try and hide the troubled look on his face. He spends several long moments like this, but when he turns to Danarius again his clouded expression has cleared and he meets the Magister’s piercing gaze unflinchingly. “Very well then, I’m your man. Am I to call you Master now?”

“Formally so, in title only. The slaves will still be under you and will call you the same. /So/,” And with that all settled, Danarius very much looks the cat that just ate the canary, “any questions before we begin?”

Anders may not be content with how vulnerable he feels in this situation, but he’s come to grips with it. Still, he’s a bit wide-eyed as he considers Danarius’s words. Any questions indeed. Finally he manages to pin something down in his thoughts. “Er, yes. Who is he?” Hands still bound, Anders angles his head towards Fenris.

The elf hardly moves for being questioned about, and Danarius blinks owlishly as if he’d forgotten the slave was there until the moment it was pointed out. “Oh, yes. This is Fenris, and I believe he’s already ‘introduced’ himself to you. Rather /fantastic/, isn’t the lad. My most successful experiment to date.” He reaches up at that, the back of his wrist with the lightest caress of his knuckles along the well defined jawline. There’s no reaction for it, if Fenris moves towards the touch it could as easily be one of the many rockings of the carriage. The touch drops, as quickly as it’d reached out. “He will only respond to you and me, unless what you ask contradicts mine. You’ll be used to him. Eventually.”

“That strength of his is your doing?” While flattery wouldn’t be at all a bad idea in this situation, it doesn’t occur to Anders as an angle to play until he’s already spoken – Fenris is genuinely impressive, he hardly has to pretend. He takes a moment to actually look at the elf directly for the first time since their short fight. The bodyguard is lithe, poised, and uncommonly beautiful, with some manner of pale scrollwork that seems to cover his body adding to the sense of grace he possesses.

“Mm, I imagine there’s quite a lot of things you don’t know, outside of Tevinter.” As long as he’s a quick learner, teaching him some basics might be rather quaintly amusing. “You see, I filled him with lyrium. I have made more attempts, and others have as well, but my little wolf is the only one that has survived the process.” And thus the scars explain themselves, swirling when not contouring to the elf’s anatomy, rather perfectly evoking the same veins lyrium naturally carves through stone, or any other material it’s forced to.

Anders blinks, staring even harder at the thought of what Danarius’s experiment could have an must have entailed. His strength might come from the Lyrium but this elf had to be tough as nails in his own right to survive. Anders lips move as he tries to work out in his own head about how -much- Lyrium the elf could be carrying under his skin. Finally, out loud: “…Unbelievable.”

“You may come to work alongside me, someday.” Though Danarius is quick to wave a hand, a quick flutter at the idea before Anders can comment or protest, “Or your own research, should something else spark your interest.” The magister glances outside the window, towards the sprawling city of Minrathous and the sparkling ocean beyond it, as the farmers alongside the road that he hardly takes notice of cast out thin nets of magic across their crops, pulling moisture from the air to water the field at once.

Anders shifts restlessly, back to doing his best to look at the countryside through the carriage windows. The land is lush and green in a way he finds both exotic and inviting. “Where would you have me begin my studies with you? And, er… may I be unbound, please?”

“/Of course/, pet, where are my manners. It wouldn’t do any good for the city to see my new apprentice bound like the common filth.” Danarius doesn’t even bother to motion for Fenris, simply lifting a hand with a silent snap of his fingers, and as his forefinger slices a quick line alongside his thumb, the ropes go loose as they’re snipped cleanly between Anders’ wrists. The rest, one hopes, the apprentice can manage on his own. “Unfortunately we’ll have to start from the beginning. But, you will be in the apprentice quarters of my home, and with access to both mine and the city’s libraries,” He strokes the edges of his beard, grey and wiry though with finely trimmed edges, “I do believe you’ll rival the others soon enough, if that ‘demonstration’ was any indication.”

Anders pulls his wrists apart and the cut bindings fall away, leaving him to rub the reddened marks. “Thank you,” he says. The Magister’s mannerisms are formal enough that Anders finds himself wanting to be on his best behavior. “My areas of concentration in the Circle were healing and spirit magic. I’m stronger in those disciplines. I know a fair bit about herbs and potions as well, and know my way around an alchemical lab.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out, not particularly focused on anything as his eyes take on a determined cast. “I’ll try and make myself useful as much as I can.”

“Good, /good/ lad. You’re showing more enthusiasm than my previous… ‘attempt’, already.” While Danarius does carry true positive interest behind his words, he only imagines the Circles outside of Tevinter, dank and cold places likely practicing horribly outdated magic they can only glimmer out of what books the Templars allow. Poor thing. “You’ll find the Circles here are far different from the ones back home. Have you heard of them?”

“Of course. I can’t vouch for the accuracy of what I’ve heard, and it takes a good year or more for news from the Tevinter Circles to start circulating in the south or so I’ve been told.” Anders leans back on the carriage bench, turning away as he frowns. “If I’m not locked in a cell or being shadowed by Templars constantly I think I’ll adapt.” He blinks slowly, looking down at the fading marks on his wrists. “Maker’s breath, this is really happening. That prat Finn would be so jealous he’d cough up an organ if he heard of this.” Anders can’t help smiling at the thought.

Danarius belts out a curt, unexpected laugh, and while he catches his loss of composure quickly he looks half able to cry from laughter, if he’d give himself the chance. “I doubt you’ll be on the wrong side of iron anytime soon, unless you’ve done something horribly illegal. Even then.” There’s a small, corner of his eye glance back to the window behind them, as if he could still see where they’d initially met. “Though…. destroying something that technically isn’t your property is /generally/ frowned upon, little dove.”

Anders actually blushes at that. Again, there is some sense of pride somewhere within telling him he should probably feel patronized but.. the old Magister just manages to be so /genteel/ about it. “I’ll make sure that if I make any trouble, I’ll have a -very- good reason and an alibi lined up.” He smiles rakishly, but then his expression falters. He feels surprised to hear himself saying “…I would never want to bring any trouble home to roost, truly.”

“Perfect. I couldn’t have asked for a better answer.” Danarius spreads his hands, simply. “Then my home is yours, as long as you do your best to keep to your word.” There’s no mention of if he didn’t, but one can assume that at best he’d be thrown out with the trash. But even Danarius is keeping that option out of his mind. In the meantime, the farmland decidedly dots the land less, more and more small cottages until they pass the first wall of the city, streets branching out from the main road into markets. Everything seems to be sold there, a bustling trade of food, wares, dottings of common slaves either carrying purchases or being sold themselves. And amongst it all, ever so casually, little sparks of magic.

Anders perfectly fits the part of a country bumpkin coming to the city for the first time, even while they’re still far out from Minrathous’s walls. He gapes and makes a few excited comments when he sees commoners using magic openly. It dazzles him so much he notices the slaves far less. The Chantry preached that Tevinter was an oppressively-ruled place where the common people labored as thralls to the magistocracy. Yet the peasants here didn’t seem worse off than they were anywhere else Anders had ever been. In many ways things seemed better. The weather was fair and the land was lush.

The markets nearest the main road dwindle, though shops still dot the sides, and fade for more favor towards daily life, taverns and more permanent stores, and the larger houses of wealthy merchants. Up ahead is some calling, between the driver and assumingly guards, as a large white stone wall looms high to separate the commoners from the hightown of this city, and heavy doors creak to give the carriage a wider berth. The hooves and wheels click off dirt as the road changes to a well laid brickwork. As before the primary entrance is cause for a sprawling market, though this one is far cleaner, customers sparser and well dressed, with larger pouches of coin passing hands. And alongside it a large warehouse looking building, several guards idling around the inviting enough entrance, and inside a flash as they pass of the slave trade, traded around like stock.

Anders catches a glimpse of the slave pens, the people chained and caged within, and he feels that sickening chill he’d felt earlier, colder than Fenris’s sword in his guts. That could be him. That -was- him, not long ago. And while no one has said it in so many words, that could be where he ends up, if this odd whim of the Magister’s begins to wear thin.

While Danarius takes notice of Anders’ attention enough to follow his gaze out of the carriage, he reads a completely different meaning from it, not lingering on the details of the apprentice’s face long enough to see it properly. Or perhaps he does, and intends to gently remind him of exactly what’s on his mind. “I’ll take you there later, once you’ve cleaned up and settled. The auction house would be a rather new experience for you, wouldn’t it.”

“Ah…” Anders chuckles nervously. “A couple hours ago I wouldn’t have expected to be browsing a slave market so much as being chained to the auction block… if I’d even been entirely conscious.” He tries to sneak a glimpse at Fenris, wondering how the bodyguard feels or if he’s offended him. “I think there’s a lot about this place that’s going to be new.” And he sounds a bit apprehensive about that.

If Fenris has any feelings about the matter, he certainly doesn’t show it, neutral almost to the point of boredom if he didn’t look so calmly alert. He doesn’t even avoid looking at the auction house, casting it a small glance out of the corner of his eyes as it passes by.  
“You?” Danarius chuckles himself, the sound far more confident at such an absurd idea as he shakes his head. “No, not you. If I hadn’t taken you in, the slavers likely would have killed you. I wasn’t playing a game, when I said you would have to impress me to live.”

“Then, I…” Anders looks concerned, to put it mildly. He bites his tongue, not certain how to phrase what he wants to ask, or if this is even the time for it. “I don’t really know what to say. Besides being glad I managed to sneak that last curse in.”

Danarius lets his chuckle settle into a smile, one far lighter than Anders’ visibly shaken state. “Quite alright, Anders. We all become a little resentful when placed too close to our mortality. As I said, it works out rather conveniently for me.” The carriage had turned as the road splits and turns, the side roads no less impressive as the city’s architecture confuses the way towards the palace itself. Finally they come to a stop alongside the outside entryway for a large, sprawling mansion flanked by similarly sprawling mansions, and only separated by alleyways. “Ah, and here we are.” A servant, though she’s clad in things far finer than what Anders has on, has already opened the door to the mansion and trots out quickly to open the carriage door, stepping aside gracefully.

Anders is so clearly impressed he doesn’t even need to say a word. He strains to see as much as he can even while he waits for Fenris and Danarius to leave the carriage first. He steps out last, bare feet landing on warm paving stones. Even in the midst of the stone city there’s vegetation, climbing vines, trees, cultivated flowers. It makes the city seem even richer than the stonework and brazen statuary on its own.

Fenris has strapped his sword back into place at his back and is alongside Danarius out of the carriage to easily it’s hardly noticeable, and suddenly how the senator forgets about him as some silently comfortable constant becomes a little more understandable. A few steps away and Danarius turns back, specifically to catch the marvelling in Anders’ expression, but instead he sees what the man is wearing out in the open, and with a few quick steps he hooks his arm loosely about the apprentice’s shoulders to usher him along. “Come in, come in. Before too many people see you like that and get the wrong impression.”  
Directly inside the foyer rings around a garden, of sorts, protected by a column of glass-thin magic to keep the elements filtering in from the open section of the roof above separate from the mansion itself. Within is a large lawn of grass, decorated functionally by all manner of useful plants and flowers, all in bloom even when the season is completely wrong, and not a single bug or even butterfly about them.  
Danarius peels off his coat to hand off to the servant that had seen them at the door, and gestures a hand for her to both Anders. “See that something more suitable is placed in the apprentice’s wardrobe.” Then he turns to follow where his hand was waving lightly at. “Fenris can show you your quarters. I’ll be in the study. I’m sure this is all rather.. much, right now.”

Anders is too struck dumb to even answer. He turns in place twice to take in the sight of the enclosed garden. There are at least as many plants he’s never seen as ones he knows the name of. At length he realizes he’s been spoken to and answers with a stammered, “Yes, yes Ser.” He tears his gaze away from the garden and the welcome sight of sunlight and looks to Fenris expectantly.

The elf waits in patient silence, and when Anders gives him full attention he simply turns, passing by a couple open doorways to a marvelously large dining hall, and up one of the mirroring staircases at the back of the foyer. At the top of the stairs to the left is a doorway to an impressive library, the obvious center of the second floor, and to the right a small hallway of three doors, all closed. Fenris opens the one closest the stairs, and quickly steps aside. It had been Hadriana’s room, and shortly after she left with her belongings any trace of her was wiped from the room, leaving it looking untouched once more.

“Er…. Thank you.” Anders pauses awkwardly at the threshhold, feeling as if this somehow seals whatever black bargain he’s made, making this his room and his bed for the forseeable future. He looks at Fenris as if hoping he could read some clue of what’s expected of him off the stoic, silent elf. “If the Magister sends for me and I’m not here, I’ll probably be in the library trying to get an early start. I’ll just… I’ll be studying things and, er, trying not to bother anybody.” Anders rambles, hoping somehow all of his words might jog a few loose from the tight-lipped slave.

The first reaction Anders gets to see is the smallest huff of air through Fenris’ nose, barely louder than his breathing, and while the reason for it is unclear the reality is the idea that the servants won’t know where he is at any given moment is completely absurd.  
But that’s not what he says. “I recommend not venturing past the library until Master Danarius takes you there himself. If he takes you. Is there anything else?” Despite the side remark the question is left completely open, with no sound of a rush.

Anders had been turning away when Fenris actually speaks. Then, the unexpected perfection of that voice simply rivets him to the spot. He can’t help staring. Partly because his thoughts are sent scattering. When Fenris falls silent again, Anders is left feeling disoriented all over again. “Yes, actually…” Anders pauses fretfully. “You can probably guess how lost I am right now. If there’s anything I should do, or I should definitely not do… anything you tell me, I’ll be grateful for. Not that I’m not already grateful.”

Fenris falls completely silent at how to answer that, and for the barest moment there’s a glimmer that perhaps he’s serving a complete bumbling idiot and Danarius has made a drastic mistake. But only a glimmer, that’s hidden so quickly it could have been a trick of the dimmer bedroom lighting, though Fenris seems to be in a rather good position to make such silent judgements without complete fear of them being seen. “You would be better served posing that question to a captured servant, than a bred one.”

Anders responds witha frustrated sigh and steps into his newly-granted quarters. “Right. Thank you.” He’ll manage somehow, he tells himself, forcing himself to accept the idea that he’s not going to find any help from any quarter.

Fenris pauses at the door for a moment longer than he would usually allow himself, feeling just how inadequate his answer was, but the truth of it simply is that he has no idea how life would be any different outside of Tevinter. He turns to go but stops halfway, looks back. “Do not go into the master laboratory.” It’s not sarcastic, not warning him away lest he knock over something, but a true warning before he turns to go.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders has established a bit of a routine for himself. There’s a window bench in his small study that catches a comfortable amount of light in the mornings, and Anders is there as he has been most days for the past week, with a mug of tepid black tea in one hand and a heavy grimoire open on his lap. He’s dressed in proper robes, not at all unlike the ones he stole last time he escaped from the circle – he always preferred Tevinter-style robes, and these with their deep blue-green accented with golden thread look fairly snappy on him.

For all of Fenris’ warning about the master laboratory, the room seems to be locked most of the time regardless of whether Danarius is inside working or not. There doesn’t seem to be any magic around the locks, but perhaps best not to press luck. Even if there’s occasional sounds of agony coming from within.  
A woman lightly knocks on the door as she comes in, an elf in her mid twenties with reddish brown hair, well kept and in simple but vibrant attire. The same slave that had greeted him at the door on his first day, and she seems to be a host of the house of sorts, fetching coats and relaying messages between slaves and the masters there. And yet Anders doesn’t know her name, or any slave’s, while they’re numerous the only one with any sort of identity Danarius seems to recognize is Fenris. The others are simply… cooks, cleaners, this woman, all furniture of the house and the less they’re noticed the happier they seem to be.  
“Master Danarius will be awaiting your presence at the front door for an outing to the auction house, Serrah.” And with that quiet note, she’s already turning to go.

“Thank you.” It isn’t something Anders says with the intent of throwing the household slaves off their game, it’s just habit. He says it without a thought as he puts a ribbon in his book to mark his place and then stands, straightening his robes. He leaves his half-empty mug on the desk he’s been given to use and makes his way to the house’s foyer. He has a staff now, as well, finer than the one he broke over a slaver’s helmet weeks ago, and he takes it from its place beside the door to his study.

He hasn’t gotten a single ‘your welcome’ for the gratitude, mostly confused looks, or when it comes to Fenris a narrow eyed pause as if he can’t quite figure out if Anders is daft or simply extremely strange and can barely hide the fact that he can’t make his mind up either way.  
Speaking of, the guard is standing at Danarius’ side as always, near the door where the master is pulling on and settling his heavier coat. “Ah, and there you are. Shall we be off then?”

“At your leisure, Master.” Anders pulls a cowled cloak on over his robes, with an ivory and gold clasp carved to resemble a pair of prowling tigers. It’s quite nice, and came as one more surprise on top of an already overwhelming pile of surprises when Danarius gifted it to him.

There is no carriage or horses waiting for them, little surprise when the auction house was only a block or so away around the corner. The air is crisp and clean enough, their breath making small puffs of fog in the air, sky a completely cloudless blue against the white stone. This close to the ocean one would expect a bitter wind, and perhaps there is one outside of the inner walls of the city, but the roads and tightly placed buildings seem specifically designed to cut down the weather.   
Though truly, Danarius simply never liked the cold, no matter how mild, and he glances to watch how Anders is faring. He imagines it much warmer in the south. “What do you think of Tevinter, Anders? I’ve heard the opinions of outsiders before, but I want to know yours.”

“So far? It seems lush and green, richer than where I lived in the south. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to seeing magic used so commonly or people being able to use it without branding themselves as pariahs to be hated and feared. Even though the commoners lead simple lives I’ve seen no beggars here, no one who goes without shelter.. I’ve been assuming anyone that destitute ends up in the slave pens. Other than that? The city is so ancient that I feel as if we just stand on the surface of it like a leaf on a pond. That under the surface one can find history the world forgot hundreds of years ago.” Anders keeps pace beside Danarius, his cloak open to let the breeze in.

Danarius chuckles at that, though fondly. “What a candid view. It is true, while there are those too proud, many of the homeless or the refugees from the war find easy lodging by selling themselves.” But he waves a gloved hand at that, the same way he would a pesky insect. “Don’t concern yourself with what they do, even those that have sold themselves are traded beyond the gates. The commoners are the same for any city. /We/ are that history. It runs in our blood, it is why we take pride in teaching, to keep that alive.”

Anders smiles at that, brows lifted. “It’s going to take some time to get used to the way people think of magic here, as a birthright and not a curse. Not that I’m complaining in the least.” Anders glances at Fenris as they approach the doors to the auction house, but nothing about the elf betrays any unease. “Going to a place like this doesn’t bother you, Fenris?”

As usual the elf barely hides a small look, as if Anders had just asked if the fact that the sky is blue bothers him, but it’s always hidden with an honest answer as soon as the slave can compose himself. “I have no opinion of it.” Even if that answer is short.  
Inside the domed warehouse, the auction floor seems to be separated lengthwise by customers. To the left, individuals are sold, a line of blocks along the wall, bidders gathering into small crowds, and towards the back flat sales, twisted boutiques with high prices. Few carry marks on their naked bodies save the intended warriors, none of them are chained, though the armored guards at the door may be enough to quell thoughts of escape. But, like Fenris, they appear rather used to their role.  
To the right is where most of the warehouse’s noise comes from. Large cages, each with large groups of the freshly caught, still crying out and afraid, and bid on by the cage full. As a cage is won the occupants are ushered out, and replaced by a new group, shuttled in like cattle.

Anders is visibly unsettled by the groups of terrified, caged captives being sold in lots. He stands and looks on, his face a shade paler and consternation in his eyes, but what, he asks himself, is he even hoping to do for them? Overturn an empire? Because it would take nothing less than that to stop what’s happening here. Some of these captives will probably die. And others may live. But their fate isn’t his problem, Anders tells himself as he turns away.

Danarius pauses them near the entry, surveying the entire floor before turning. “I have some business to attend to. Fenris, take our dove to see the more… /well mannered/ stock, if he wants anything to call his own. They can be quite satisfying.” And simply as that the magister turns and almost vanishes into the crowd of similarly ornate attire, headed for the cages. Leaving Fenris, silently awaiting Anders’ next words.

Anders’ next words are a thoroughly bewildered “Wait. What?” He turns to Fenris, looking for confirmation that he just heard what he thought he did. “He wants me to buy a slave? To do what?”

“Anything you might need, if you wish one personally assigned to you.” Fenris assumed that much would be readily apparent, but perhaps not. The elf clears his throat quietly, glances out to the auction house. “The individual stock auctions are grouped by talent. Specialty breeders keep displays along the back wall.”

Anders rubs the back of his neck, one hand up underneath his gathered blonde hair as he tries not to look too awkward, and for the most part fails. “Specialty breeders? Did you say the other night that you were bred to captivity yourself?” Anders begins making his way toward the back wall, with murmurs of “excuse me” toward owners and slaves alike.

Fenris nearly sighs with exasperated relief, that they’re doing something rather than just standing exactly where Danarius had left them. Either from his movements or people clearing the path for an obvious bodyguard, Fenris seems to have far less trouble facing the crowd and keeping to the apprentice’s side. “Yes. Likely most of these have been bred.” Thus the auction house is clearer, why the slaves along the left act so placid compared to the misery to the right.

Anders lets himself look as they pass by stalls and kiosks where breeders attempt to show off their human and elven stock. The bred slaves seem far less wretched on the whole – bored rather than overtly miserable, and all of them at least appear to be in good health and reasonably fed. He pauses for a while with a ring of other onlookers, watching a pair of bronze-skinned elven girls dance while their merchant beats out a rhythm on a pair of drums.

Fenris spares a couple momentary glances towards the dancers but it’s clear he’s not paying attention to them, always at some small state of distraction the moment they leave the mansion and here even moreso. There’s a yell and a scream from the opposite side, still clear despite the din of voices, the small commotion catching the elf’s attention. His head turns, hawklike, towards the sound and immediately pinpoints where Danarius has wandered off to. The magister is near the pen, the sounds only the dismay of a slave as she’s bodily dragged from the cage, but his eyes linger while Anders seems otherwise preoccupied.

Anders moves past the dancers after a few more minutes watching, quiet and pensive as he sizes up the market’s offerings. Merchants hawk the many virtues of their wares, some in cruder terms than others, and it becomes clear just what specialties some of these breeders have trained their stock for. Anders bites his tongue. He’s tempted. One or two of the merchants can read that off him with ease and they beckon him, competing for his attention with offers and propositions that turn his cheeks red in short order. A young woman in a silver collar smiles at him and lifts her naked breasts in her own hands, smooth flesh dimpling under the pressure of her fingers and filling Anders’ head with thoughts of having his own hands on those ripe curves. An elven boy with auburn hair traces his lush lips with his tongue, gazing at Anders from underneath heavy dark lashes.

Fenris can’t imagine Anders being in any sort of danger and therefor only pays a barest attention to him, half listening for a question, to pay for one of the slaves, or anything else the man might want. It was hard to tell precisely, an unpredictability that agitated at the edges of the elf’s mind though he couldn’t pinpoint why. So he makes do with distracting himself towards his proper duty, guarding Danarius vigilantly even if from this uneasily far vantage. The scream, now muffled to some curses from other leaving slaves as a guard drags the woman out, had been his purchase.   
The bodyguard turns his attention back to where Anders is looking with the vaguest annoyed expression. Screamers can always be so bothersome at night, the sounds faint enough for everyone but him, and it always leaves him lying awake for days.

One of the slavemongers surmises that Anders’ reluctance is owed to being after some more exotic or specialized stock. The man, grinning solicitously, grabs a pre-pubescent boy by one bruised arm and pushes him forward, beginning to launch into a schpiel about how obedient and well-trained the child is. Anders recoils, unable to even hide the horror on his face. At the stall next to him a noblewoman berates a slave merchant as she makes, apparently, a return. Anders can surmise what will happen to the slave girl as one of the guards hauls her away by her collar. He lurches back, shouldering his way through the throngs in search of the front doors.

Fenris nearly misses the fact that Anders is making a quick escape, and with brows knit he follows after, one step behind the apprentice and narrowly avoids knocking into the same people. Already he’s feeling torn between duties, something that would never have been a problem with Hadriana, or any apprentice before this… /problematic/, man. Just before they reach the main doors Fenris quells his instinct to just make a grab for a shoulder, as much as he kills the notion to just say stop, and settles for trying to get his attention. “/Serrah./”

“/What./” Anders turns sharply. He’s pale, breathing labored, as if he’s only a few steps removed from being physically ill. "I need some air. I’m not going any further than the plaza fountain.“

Fenris stops, lips absently half-parted and eyes flicking as he tries desperately to read some sort of reason from Anders’ expression. When nothing seems obvious, he finally tries reason. “I can’t watch you both in two places. What is it?”

"This place is vile,” Anders spits. "Every one of these merchants is a pimp and a butcher rolled into one loathsome package and I hate even having to watch while they ply this trade.“

If the elf has opinions to that remark he certainly keeps his mouth shut, though he momentarily looks mildly perplexed, as if those statements didn’t particularly make sense at all beyond the loosest sense. But after a few awkward moments, the silence between them disturbed by the auction house that continues without their participation, Fenris just sighs faintly, and turns his head towards the opposite end of the building where he last saw the magister. “Master Danarius already finished his business some minutes ago, if you would rather not linger we should go to him.”

"Very well.” Anders’s shoulders slump a bit at the idea of having to wade back into the thronging slave market, but he clenches his jaw and tries to pull together some semblance of composure. "Lead on,“ Anders says, falling into step just behind Fenris.

Fenris hesitantly turns to return to the magister, half expecting Anders to run when given the first chance. Unavoidably they pass the right wall, where fresh slaves that had clearly been caught too recently to even be beaten down yet wail and yell or just stand brooding in the back of the cages. Here there’s no auctions, no advertising from merchants, and no common mages; most of the customers on this side of the warehouse are older, practically have an aura of experience and confidence about them, and when Fenris picks Danarius out of the crowd the man looks right at home, giving a last glance over the cages to make sure he hasn’t missed something special, hiding somewhere amongst the rough. Well out of Anders’ sight Fenris gives his master a faintly pleading, exhausted look for being forced to put up with the apprentice, to which the magister just returns a comforting smile, before looking past the elf to his charge. “Giving my little wolf some trouble, are we?”

"Not intentionally,” Anders says, looking immediately crestfallen at the thought that he’s been difficult. His eyes still dart to the slavepens, though, and the frayed edges of his composure are more obvious than he’d ever want them to be. "I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but your household staff has been more than adequate…“ Whenever one of the caged slaves makes eye contact, all Anders can do is lower his gaze in shame.

“Oh it’s quite alright. I had matters of my own to attend to. Shall we go then?” Danarius, not bothered in the slightest raises his palm in a light gesture for them to leave, and as he starts off to lead them out Fenris looks somewhat relieved. They’ve passed through the doors to the auction house before the magister speaks again. “I hear you’ve been spending quite some time in your study?”

"Yes, Master,” Anders answers. "I’ve been reading what’s available about the last two centuries of history of the Tevinter magistocracy. That, and trying improve my spoken Arcanum.“

“Good, good. But you know you can’t accomplish everything alone in a study. The world you are trying to learn is all about you.” Danarius makes a sweep with one hand to emphasize the city they’re walking through. Though primarily at this rate they’re going to run out of tea within days. “How much time do you think you’ve spent talking to anyone other than myself?”

"Er… several minutes, at least!” Anders flashes a grin, the statement clearly intended to be self-deprecating. "I see your point, Ser. If I’m to know this city, though, where should I begin? The markets, the taverns, the brothels…?“

Danarius nearly chokes. “Heavens, what poverty did you come from!? I meant mingle, dear boy, not go past the gates to speak with huddling refugees that can’t afford a single slave amongst them. Truly..”  
Fenris smirks, a faint touch to his lips, that Danarius has finally seen somewhat of the eccentricity that was setting him off edge. Unfortunately his pleasure falls flat with his master’s next words and a wave of the hand, “I’m going to be busy for most of the afternoon, I’m afraid. Take Fenris, he will answer any questions you may have about the city and speaks fluently.” 

Some time to spend out of doors, in the sunshine? Anders looks enthusiastic about the idea, even if he has no idea where there is to go if not to a brothel or a tavern. Hopefully Fenris knows a few places. "That’s generous of you,” he says, grinning at the far less enthusiastic bodyguard. "I’ll have Fenris show me around the acropolis, it should be fun for both of us.“

Fenris can’t even hide his withering look at the mention that it will be anything approximating ‘fun’, somewhat safe behind Danarius’ back. Danarius, meanwhile, just sounds like he’s fully aware of exactly what he’s done. “Think nothing of it. You can never be too constructive with your resources. As long as I’m not out of the house, I rather have no idea what he does all day. Must be quite boring.” As they near his home he pulls the door open, and pauses to turn back. Partly just to smile at his pet’s miserable look. “Do enjoy yourselves.”

Anders beams at Fenris, mostly out of the hopes that smiling might annoy the bodyguard even more. "Is it really as bad as all that? Did you have other plans?” When the door shuts and the latch falls into place, Anders turns to walk away. "There was a place back towards the plaza that smelled like spiced lamb, I say we check out their menu. Oh come on, are you still giving me that look? I haven’t even done anything yet!“

The slave steels his emotions back into place as he turns on his heel and falls back into step with wherever Anders wants to go. He isn’t going to let some foreigner watch him tear his hair out from frustration this early on. “As you wish.”

"Oh, don’t be that way, that’s no fun at all.” Anders pouts, but he shrugs and leads the way as he remembers it. "What did I do to put such a bee in your bonnet in the first place? I thought I’d been behaving myself fairly well so far. Studying, staying out of your hair, studying some more…“

Fenris takes a slow breath, to answer as neutrally as possible. Here he had assumed the questions would be less personal. “Blowing up your previous owners isn’t a good impression to make with a bodyguard. Nor was trying to leave the auction house.” He manages the answer without sounding annoyed, though the lack of any emotion likely speaks of it enough. 

"My previous owners were murdering rapists who deserved a lot worse than I gave them,” Anders snaps off his reply. “And I don’t know how you can stand being in that place any more than I could. But for what it’s worth, I’ll try and keep your job easy for you today.” The restaurant Anders had spied occupies a corner of the plaza, and there are tables and chairs set out under fine canvas canopies. When Anders approaches the tables, one of the servers waves and gestures for him to sit wherever he pleases. “So what are those things called, with all the rice rolled up in those leaves? Those are delicious. Do you think they have those here?”

“Dolmas. Probably.” Fenris cuts himself off as Anders finds a seat, sits in the opposite chair specifically after the apprentice, and closes his eyes in a slow blink as he decides to do something he would usually consider very stupid. Which is, of course, speak candidly. “Perhaps you don’t understand, since you seem to be unaccustomed to slaves.” Or about everything regarding Tevinter. “If you had managed to leave the auction house, I could have been punished regardless of my choice.”

Anders blinks. When one of the servers comes by he orders mint tea for both of them, with a quick aside of “I hope you like mint tea?” And when the server departs he resumes looking perplexed. “But I’d have been the one screwing up, not you.”

Fenris pauses halfway through his thoughts at being asked if he likes something, but tries to mentally swat it out of the way. “If I had left you as you left, I would have been directly disobeying my master. If I had followed you, at worst he could have been killed and I would have been put to death for my negligence. That you made a mistake to put me in such a situation matters little.”

None of what Fenris tells him had even occurred to Anders, and that’s plainly written upon his face. “Forgive me, then. I hadn’t even realized I was causing trouble for you. If I’m about to make a blunder like that again, it’s alright if you stop me.” He frowns, trying to contemplate the entire idea of Danarius meting out discipline. “He doesn’t seem like a cruel Master, Danarius. ”

“He can afford not to be. Should there be a blunder extreme enough, a slave can be sold beyond the gates. Usually that is a threat enough.”

“I can’t envision him being willing to part with you,” Anders replies. “Anyhow, I’m sorry. You’re right that I’m not used to being around slaves. Evidently I need to think a lot harder before I act.”

Finally, a truth Fenris isn’t nervous about saying in frustration himself. “I do have certain privileges and I have never done anything justifying punishment, but should something happen he cannot sell me.”

“He’s proud of the work he did on you, and from what he’s said, it can’t be easily replicated…”

“It won’t be. Should I disobey him, the lyrium would be worth more than keeping me alive.” The words would sound cruel if they weren’t so matter of fact. An expensive experiment that usually fails and a hard-fought success that can be undone by simple bad behavior; Fenris might be a slave but he isn’t stupid, he knows that he’s a decadent ornament as much as an exceptional guard.

Anders frowns at that. He’s familiar with how it feels to live knowing you’re only a few mistakes away from someone in authority deciding your life needs to end. But he’s used to there being some justification for that, however hollow. In the case of slaves, it seems to entirely come down to poverty or race, nothing to do with being born with magic and potentially a scourge on all mankind. It’s unfair, blatantly unfair. "I would vouch for you. I don’t know if my opinion would matter, but I wouldn’t stand by and let you be punished when I was the one in the wrong.“

Fenris stares at Anders for a moment, before just looking down to drink the tea that’s been sitting in front of him. “It doesn’t matter. I haven’t done anything to upset him yet.”

"Then I’m sure it will stay that way. You seem to know what’s expected of you." A position Anders envies, though he doesn’t say so outright. He picks up his tea and drinks, and when the server returns orders some dolmas for the both of them.

“It isn’t complicated.” Fenris just raises his eyebrows at the next order, as much as he tries to remain quietly more focused on his drink. Danarius has certainly spoiled him before, but coming from anyone else the gesture seems out of place, even for something relatively simple. As soon as the waitress leaves the table he glances back up, remembers he isn’t simply putting up with this for no reason, even if Danarius was only half-serious. “Was there anything else..?”

"I was hoping you knew a few places we might go? I’d read there’s a menagerie in the city, with tigers and everything.” Anders grins, boyish in his excitement. "I’ve also heard the best hospital in the Thedas is in Tevinter, and only the one in Val Royeaux comes close. Other than that… where does a proper gentleman like your Master go for a good time?“

“I don’t think the hospital allows sightseeing… ” And Fenris pauses at the last question, gives Anders a bit of a perplexed look. “Is Ferelden nothing like Tevinter at all? He doesn’t have to /go/ anywhere.” 

"Aside from the fact that most people still walk on two legs? Fereldan is nothing like Tevinter, no. There’s no slavery there, unless you count how they treat mages, but most of the commoners live in poverty severe enough that slavery might almost look attractive. I’ve never set foot in an estate like your Master’s until this past week and I can see why he’d never need to leave. But he sent us out of doors so I figure we’d best find a way to keep busy.”

Then perhaps there’s going to be more explaining than Fenris initially thought, and he’d assumed his master would handle most of it. “When he has the time and mind to, he holds his own parties. They are.. likely something you haven’t experienced either. Otherwise he is preoccupied between his research, experiments and the duties of a senator.”

“That’s convenient then, not having to cruise when you’re looking for a lay.” Anders comments dryly, surmising that he’s going to have to wait for one of these parties to come around before he gets any action.

The response just lands Anders another deeply quizzical look, Fenris not even bothering to hide this one, head cocking to a slight tilt and an eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry?” He only understood one word of that entire sentence, and it was the last one.

“For most of us common barbarians, going out and finding somebody who wants to is a vital first step in having sex.” Anders deadpans the explanation.

The eyebrow drops as Fenris leans back to his chair. “You do realize anyone in the household is available to you at all times? You don’t have to wait for any party.” Or this cruising nonsense.

“You do realize that I’ve never fucked anyone who didn’t want me and I don’t intend to start now?”

Fenris looks about ready to have a small outburst, perhaps make some comment about the filth beyond the gates, but he stops short well before he opens his mouth and forces his eyes down. “If that is what you think is best.” Though his tone of disagreement is hardly concealed about it.

Anders is left scratching his head, unable to fathom why this of all things would bother Fenris. "What, were you offering?“

Fenris nearly chokes on the spot, narrowly manages it down to a quiet coughed huff through his nose, keeps his tone even. “I am not in a position to make offers. But I am a part of the household.”

Anders grins. If Fenris is going to be so determinedly uncomfortable he decides one of them should at least enjoy it. "Then that’s something to consider…”

The slave finally clears his throat as he recomposes himself. “My intention is that no one else shares your views unless they can’t afford a companion themselves. Leaving the gates in search of it would likely cause a stir amongst our Master’s peers.”

“Then I suppose I have a lot of lonely nights ahead of me.” Anders wears a sour expression at the thought. "Maker, give me something else to think about, because that’s a lousy thing to contemplate.“

Fenris just looks passingly pleased at that look, for the embarrassment Anders subjected him to. “Does this have something to do with what scared you in the auction house?”

"Maybe,” Anders says tersely. He leans his chin on one hand, looking away towards the plaza. "Why -doesn’t- it bother you? They were selling children. Putting people to the sword for not being salable. I don’t care how long I go without, but nobody should live or die by the quality of the blowjob I can get out of them.“ His lip curls in disgust.

“A merchant isn’t going to destroy returned goods when he can sell it to a less demanding audience.” The children he doesn’t mention, simply drops it to agreeing silence.

"Still. I know I can’t change the way the world works, but… I can’t really nod along with that, either. So I guess I abstain.”

“As you wish.” Fenris’ answer is as simple as that, neutral on what Anders decides to do with his free time. “If I might make an observation?”

“Go ahead.”

“You didn’t seem quite so opposed until you saw something you didn’t want. Or that you abstain when any slave would rather your… eccentric habits than the alternatives.”

“Noticed that, did you.” Anders slumps, shooting Fenris an irritated look. “Yes, I was tempted. And then I had to ask myself, ‘do I really want to be that person’ and the answer is 'no.’”

“Evidently.”

“But you think a slave would rather deal with me than be sold outside? You make that sound like a compliment, you sweet talker, you.”

“If you are under the impression that our Master’s relaxed nature extends to the rest of this city, you would be quite mistaken.”

“So I could have someone dependent on me and desperately afraid of my disapproval.” Anders shakes his head, his discontent showing he knows how well that describes his feelings toward Danarius. “Even if I meant to be some body’s savior I’d just end up their captor.”

Fenris shoots Anders a small, withering glare before he averts his eyes, closes them in a slow blink of a pause to clear whatever bothered him. “Is there anything else you wished to share your opinions about?”

It occurs to Anders that while Danarius has a knack for making anything he says sound genteel and urbane, Fenris has something of the opposite knack: the ability to make studied politeness say “Shut the fuck up already.” “Only that I really like these 'dolmas’ and if there are tigers I hope you’ll show them to me.”

Fenris sighs, a heavy but relieved sound instead of an exasperated one. Anything but the topic they were on is so welcome, at this point. “There are tigers. Among other beasts.”


	3. Chapter 3

A fire crackles in the hearth of the master’s study. The room is warm, comfortable, richly-appointed but within the bounds of the Magister’s fairly sober tastes. Danarius sits calmly on the couch before the fire, a crystal snifter of fine brandy cradled in one elegant, long-fingered hand. His evening robes are clean and styled for comfort rather than company, and he has exchanged his boots for cozy, plush slippers.  
“Join me, my pet, you’ve had quite the busy day.” Danarius beckons to Fenris with his free hand, inviting him to take his customary place curled against him, head in his lap.

Fenris reaches back behind him to close the door just as quietly as he entered, the latch clicking behind him and enveloping the hallway in darkness once more. As he approaches he slides the strap from his back, the leather straining and stretching in his grip as it holds up the sword until he can grip the hilt and properly set the blade leaning to the edge of the couch. His fingers let the leather slip from them as he abandons his work there, and he sinks to stretch out along the space of cushioning Danarius always leaves for him, a small stretch and then a curl, lazy and loose, and finally settles in place with his eyes closed. Already he can feel the tension leaving his shoulders.

“My little Fenris.” Danarius’s voice is a low, warm thrum, and his words seem steeped in affection, dripping with golden honey. He cards his fingers through Fenris’s hair, long nails dragging lightly over his scalp, stroke after meditative stroke. The Magister is content to pass many minutes this way in silence, enjoying the warmth of the fire, the heat of the brandy he sips, and the comfortable feeling of his prized slave at rest against him. “It was not so terrible as all that, your outing with the boy, I should think.”

The elf’s eyelids crack back open to glare at the fire for the interruption, Anders’ face imagined in the swirls of licking heat, but it’s a tired and noncommittal sort of irritation. Fenris draws his arm forward, hand crossing and draping along his master’s lap and blocking his vision. “It has been… /trying/.”

“I am curious to know your opinion of the lad. I find his simple gratitude… refreshing. Rather a fine remedy for that appalling Hadriana.” Danarius continues meditatively drawing his fingers through Fenris’s hair, soothing his own nerves as much as his pet’s.

Between his personal blinder and Danarius’ nails ever so lightly drawing across his scalp Fenris closes his eyes again with a long, slow sigh. “He has certain.. /opinions/, that may eventually prove troublesome.” Opinions would be the nicest word he’d use for it.”Did you see him ready to take flight from the auction house?”

“Considering the manner of his acquisition, I am not surprised.” Danarius traces the edge of Fenris’s ear with the tip of his fingernail. “He is coarse, undereducated, and of common stock and I have no doubt he finds his circumstances overwhelming. He sees more commonality with a slave upon the auction block than with any noble of the Imperium. It falls to me to educate him otherwise. I shall require your help in this, my little wolf. The role of a slave is simply a role, like any other, that can bring great contentment when those finding themselves cast in that role, submit to it with grace, as do you. This is what we should endeavor to show him. And yes, my pet, I did see him ready to flee. Most unbecoming. I should hope he rekindles that courage I saw in him in the pens. Again, he must be educated properly, that as a mage there is nothing in this world he need fear. Perhaps I should not have let him choose to leave the market without a slave of his own. It would be a pleasant way for him to discover his mastery, and a lad his age should have a companion at his disposal.”

Fenris turns his head in Danarius’ lap, looks up from the corner of his eye. “He did express some interest in your parties, when I mentioned them. I don’t believe he understands what the event entails. But I have no idea what he expects, either. Perhaps if the idea was presented him more privately.” Not that parties are particularly private, but moreso than the auction house floor.

Danarius chuckles at that. “So he does have some appetite for pleasure. With all the time he’s spent sequestered with his books I had begun to worry. I believe you may be right, my pet. I will speak to him privately tomorrow afternoon, as my experiments allow. It is my hope that he will present somewhat less of a trial to you.”

The small nod from Fenris comes more of a nuzzle. “I will do whatever you require of me to expedite the process.” For all the formal words his tone is tired, like he’s ready for Anders to just act like any other proper master already. “He may relax over time. I believe he has some notion that we fear you.”

Danarius chuckles again, brushing his knuckles over Fenris’s cheek. “Indicating, I believe, that the lad fears me himself. That simply will not do. Yes, it’s past time I had a long talk with the boy.” Danarius’s fingers slip under Fenris’s collar, caressing his neck and his throat. “You have been very patient, my pet…”

“Is there not anyone else you could assign to look after him? I would rather return to my normal tasks-” Fenris cuts himself off sharply, half rolls his body as he turns his head farther to press his lips to the underside of Danarius’ palm, eyes winced closed like a dog that knows it’s done something wrong. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t be questioning you.”

“Looking after him -is- one of your normal tasks, now, Fenris. There is simply no one else I can trust with this.” Danarius’s tone is firm and somewhat weary. He allows Fenris to kiss his palm, but then withdraws his hands. “I believe I shall take my rest, now. You may retire for the night, Fenris.”

Fenris’ eyes drop, and he carefully picks himself upright from his master’s lap, and stands with hardly a sound. He knows when he’s done wrong enough that Danarius barely needs to punish him more than he does himself, gaze low. “Yes, Master.” As he passes his sword he picks it up, quietly shuffles the leather over his shoulder as he opens the door to leave, and soon finds himself in the middle of a dark, cool hallway.

There are lamps lit in the apprentice study across the hall, golden light shining out from under the closed doors. Sleep is eluding Anders, much as he wishes it would claim him. In the interim he tries to lose his thoughts in his books. With a glass of some of the household’s cheaper red wine in one hand, he studies a volume on medicinal herbs of the region, copying references into his own grimoire by hand.

Fenris turns to leave back to his own quarters when he notices the lights still burning from the apprentice study. He pauses there in the darkness, but being sour clearly did him no favors so he steels himself and sets his shoulders as he steps forward. There’s a small hesitation in his hand as he reaches forward, but he pushes himself and turns the handle, pulls the door open warily, unsure of what exactly he’s expecting that would make him stop. Perhaps he envisioned that the apprentice had taken his words closely to heart and had the attention of one of the other slaves, and for some reason he feels as relieved as he looks weary when that isn’t the case. “Did you need more tea?” Not his function, surely, but at this hour even the girl in charge of that would be asleep.

Anders looks up from his books, mouth dropping slightly open in surprise to see Fenris checking in on him. “If I drink any tea at this hour I’ll never get to sleep. Not that I think I’m going to manage sleep tonight regardless. What are you still doing up?” Anders shuts his grimoire and rises from his chair, stretching stiff and weary limbs.

For some reason Fenris was imagining this went differently, that he would pay his dues, a token towards correcting his behavior, and that would be all. Anders would either want tea or not, and Fenris would either spend a bit more time walking to fetch it from the kitchen, and he’d be done with it. What a mistake it was to assume anything from this man. “It is nothing.” He wants desperately to give an excuse, that he simply patrols the grounds some nights, which would be true, but also a lie, this time. “I will leave you be, then.”

“You don’t have to.” Anders’s words end up sounding like a plea, and he knows it. “You’re the only person here who /talks/ to me, you don’t have to….” Anders lowers his head and sighs. “Of course, you don’t have to /stay/ either. Do as you wish, I’m sure you’ve had enough of holding my hand for one day.” Anders turns away to lean against the windowsill, looking out at the city, the cypress trees in the manor yard.

Though it’s only within the confines of his thoughts the agitation in Fenris’ mind goes silent, and he pauses, one shoulder turned back as he was about to leave, the moment before lifting his first step. “Was there something else you wanted?” The tone is quieter, somehow more informal by it but no less polite, and for once patient.

Anders turns again. There’s a whisper of fabric with each step he takes to close the distance between them, and then he’s leaning in, breath sweet with wine, warm lips on Fenris’s mouth for a stolen kiss, his hands holding the elf’s perfect jaw, if only lightly.

As if Anders could surprise him any further, and Fenris drops his jaw, at first only from how stunned he is, without thinking, but far from regretting it so shortly after being turned away. He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for Anders save the smallest movements to keep their lips close, and he doesn’t retreat. When Anders finally does his brows knit, giving him the same silently perplexed look as if it were still earlier in the day, as if the apprentice were still telling him about the oddities of Ferelden and nothing more.

It was sweet. Sweeter than Anders wanted it to be. If only it hadn’t been, there’d be no ongoing debate in his head. Yet he was growing certain that debate wouldn’t last much longer. Fenris looks at him with perplexity but not anger or shame, and Anders takes that fine chin in his hands again and places another kiss on that partly-opened mouth.

The response hardly changes the second time but the ways it does are subtly so important. Fenris barely puts his weight forward, leans in to return the affection without truly engaging, not yet, no risks when he doesn’t truly know the man or his wants yet, or what would be too forward. As Anders pulls away again his expression has been loosened somewhat, and he ventures a small, “Did you change your mind?”

“I…” Anders feels as if a thousand things in him have tensed into a brutal knot. He lets out his breath, tries to sort that tangle. “I want to be with you. I won’t be cruel and I won’t punish you if you refuse me.” He shakes his head helplessly. “I need someone. And you’re the only one who will even talk to me.”

“If that is what you wish.” Though Fenris cants his head, a small tip of his chin down and to one side as he adds, quietly, “The others will talk, to you if you wish them to. Though they would perhaps be more confused by your decisions than I would.”

“I’m sorry I’m confusing.” Anders sighs, bowing his head until his forehead rests against Fenris’s. “I doubt it helps to tell you so, but I’m at least as confused by everything happening as you seem to be confused by me. I don’t really belong here… the best I can hope for is to get better at pretending I do.”

“If you didn’t belong here Master Danarius would not have chosen you.” Fenris chides and he carefully, tentatively lifts his head, pulling away from the touch but only barely, leaves hairs of space between them. He’s quieter as he adds, “It’s too late in the evening for you to be trying for my attention.” The words are less a denial and more simple fact, fully aware of the long nights Anders has been spending in the study when he should be sleeping.

Anders is still a moment longer, breathing and smelling Fenris’s hair on every breath he takes. Feeling the space between them and the tantalizing warmth that rises off of Fenris’s skin. "I didn’t know there was a right time.“

The elf’s eyes fall immediately, though no shame is quick to his eyes like it would be for Danarius, like it was bare minutes ago, his posture more reminiscent of a statue in repose. Full of a confident fire but tempered by servitude to a firm silence. Then he looks up, any of that spirit locked away deep until none of it shows in his eyes. Not the way he’s let sparks of it slip through before. “Only an observation.”

Anders steals another kiss before he draws away, or perhaps he bestows one this tip, his lips resting gently on Fenris’s lower lip, just an instant of minute pressure and then gone. Anders sighs, wistful, as he straightens and steps away. A wave of one hand and the lamps in the room dim and extinguish themselves, and Anders guides himself to the door with a sphere of magelight perched on his fingers. "I’ll see you in the morning, Fenris. Sleep well.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning it isn’t Fenris, but the familiar host elf that knocks on the apprentice’s door in the morning, barely opens the door just enough to see that he’s stirring to mention that today, there will be breakfast in an hour and that the Master will be waiting. The longer Anders spends in the house the more apparent it becomes that this woman seems to be a quietly major role, perhaps one directly under Fenris, the one that coordinates everyone and acts as a mediator between the Master and the rest of the slaves. The rest of the individuals are seen so much less, flitting here and there when something needs to be done.  
It is precisely an hour later when Danarius is in the large dining room, tea dark as pitch and steaming in front of him and Fenris seated at his side, not at the main long table in the middle of the hall but at a smaller, quieter table for four set by a window that stretches floor to ceiling.

Anders presents himself as requested, wearing his favorite gold-trimmed robes, his hair clean and neat and pulled back into a tight ponytail. Breakfast is something he usually skips, most often by virtue of sleeping right through it after having been up for most of the night. When he enters the room, he greets the magister with a shallow, respectful bow, his gaze sliding to one side for a glimpse of Fenris and a quick attempt to see if there’s anything in his expression he can read. “Good morning,” he says as he takes his seat across from Danarius.

Fenris is, with aggravating predictability, impossible to read. He glances up from his simpler glass of water as Anders enters, not overly avoidant but not with any sort of knowing look, possibly a faint air of judgement in his narrowed eyes but that doesn’t change anything. As far as the slave looks, nothing happened. Nothing of note, anyway.  
Danarius clears his throat, but just as casually, either oblivious or simply uncaring. “Ah, good morning. I was hoping you would be able to join me.” Absently he flicks a small wave of his hand, a small afterthought movement that sends a slave practically trotting out from the kitchen to fill Anders’ cup with tea.

Anders blurts out a polite thank-you to the slave out of reflex and immediately bites his lip. “It’s a pleasure,” he says before he lifts his tea to his lips and drinks. With Fenris seeming indifferent to him, he turns his attention to Danarius completely.

“I was rather wondering,” The magister is hardly in a rush, pausing his own sentence to take another sip of tea, as he likes it most at the hottest, so hot to be invigorating as much as the ingredients. “if we could cover a topic that won’t be covered in your personal studies. There will be several, in fact, but I felt it best we get this.. out of the way, shall we.”

“Whatever you believe is best,” Anders answers swiftly. The tea is nearly hot enough to burn his tongue, but the heat compliments the bitter edge to the taste. Breathing in vapor, he can almost forget that he has every reason to be nervous about what’s in store today.

“I’ve overheard you’ve been having quite some trouble deciding exactly how you feel about having servants. Could I hear your thoughts on the matter?” Danarius hardly looks up, as if he were asking about the weather today. But there’s little mystery as to where he ‘overheard’ this, Fenris clearly planted near Anders as much as assigned to help him settle.

Anders tries not to look uncomfortable. He fails, initially, eyes downcast and staring into his teacup for a moment, but he collects his thoughts. “It isn’t so much having servants that upsets me as… the situation those servants are in. A slave is dependent on their master in every aspect of life. It would be acceptable, in the eyes of the law, to have any and all of the slaves in your household put to the sword for any reason and no reason… and I don’t understand how they can live with that knowledge. As though… they have no value in this world besides what people like you or I place on them. It isn’t right…” Anders trails off awkwardly, feeling as if whatever he’s trying to convey remains just out of reach.

“Yes, it would be perfectly within a master’s right to see their property destroyed for /no/ reason whatsoever. But how often do you believe that happens? Or say, should someone mistreat their dog, does that mean all dog owners should be put to task for it?” Danarius’ words are calm, even tones, and lack impatience or frustration; rather, it sounds like he could follow this debate all day if need be. But then, nothing less should be expected of a senator.

“No, but perhaps it means dogs should have some recourse, under the law, to protect themselves from mistreatment? And it still leaves me wondering, is it really better for a man to have a kind master, than no master at all?” Anders pauses, eyes glancing down. “But before I say anything further, I… am not intending to be critical of you, Master, or how you run your household. From all that I’ve seen, you treat everyone around you well.”

“I know this is all quite /new/ to you, lad.” The exact reason for the man’s patience is unclear, though perhaps it’s for no more than putting one’s all into a task once deciding upon it, and if Anders is to be a proper magister of Tevinter then some ironing out of these.. ‘ideas’ needs to be done. “You way, then. Say we free them? Do you think any of them would live in the clean conditions they do now, with food and a bed guaranteed to them for the remainder of their lives? How many of them do you think would turn to crime out of desperation?”

Anders fidgets with his teacup, looking chastened. “I… hadn’t really thought it through that far. I don’t presume the world is going to change on my behalf. But… no, like you say, it would mean there would be many destitute people who have never provided for themselves before.”

Danarius continues, driving his point home albeit gently. “Precisely. Even if we simply moved to paid servitude, the problem would still exist. To be frank I would keep a fraction of the number in this house, if I had to pay them all enough for them to afford what they already have now.” There’s a closing pause, as he takes a sip of tea, and clears his throat. “Quite the opposite, I trust their loyalty far more when I’ve known them their entire lives, instead of searching for someone to hire that might fit the job I need.”

“You… have a way of inspiring loyalty.” Anders says it almost shyly, stealing a glance at Fenris as an afterthought. “The household servants… I suppose if we’re fair to them, they’re content to be here?”

Danarius seems far more interested in finishing his tea before it cools, at this point uncaring of the details once the opposition falters. the glance to the nearest slave is noticed, though perhaps misinterpreted, and he waves a hand towards Fenris. “You’re free to ask them directly what they think, Anders. They won’t lie to you.”

Anders can’t help but laugh at that. “One in particular thinks I’m incomprehensible and a persistent nuisance. I don’t have much defense against the truth.” He shrugs, expression sobering. “I just want to be fair to them,” he says. “I’m sorry it’s taking me some time to figure out what that entails.”

“As much as they may try to be at times,“ Danarius raises an eyebrow towards Fenris. The pet must trust Anders to some extent, to let that much slip, “they are not /Tranquil/.”And as much as the man is clearly loathe to even say the word, it seems appropriate to pull from something the apprentice would clearly know. “If they have opinions towards you, they will show it, no matter how subtly.”

Now that it’s been mentioned, Tranquility does stand in stark contrast to slavery, and slavery is, in Anders’ estimation, very much the lesser evil. Yet… still an evil in its own right, even if there’s little he can do about it on his own. “I appreciate that, actually. It makes me more comfortable to know where I stand with them.” He pauses, and decides to say a bit more. “Fenris especially has been invaluable. He’s gone a bit out of his way to help me adjust to things here, and I’m at a loss to thank him properly. He’s exceptional, and not only because of your work.”

“Oh, I believe you will find that he is nothing /but/ my work, my little dove.” There is a soft chuckle with that, as he sets down an empty cup. “But I will leave that for you to discuss with him at a later time at your leisure. Rather, I was more interested in showing you off tomorrow night, unless you had something else occupying your time?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t put off. You really think I’m fit for polite company, then?” Anders gives Danarius a rakish grin.

The humor is not met with an ill reaction, Danarius allowing for a small, novelly amused smirk. “If I kept you in hiding for much longer, dear boy, people would begin to get suspicious.” A slave quietly opens the door from the kitchen, not the host but a younger elf girl, not quite carrying the confidence the other slaves seem to have yet, more meekly slinking close than the polite walk she’s intending, as she takes away the empty cups and just as quickly retreats. “You need only keep appearances for a few hours at most. Beyond that, only trusted friends or the direly inebriated will remain.”

“Sounds like I can manage. Fenris mentioned …” Anders trails off awkwardly, remembering that conversation. “…What can I expect, exactly? ”

“Quite a few uptight enemies of mine expecting to tear you to pieces for not being a bloodline they recognize.” Danarius waves a hand again, undirected and shooing the thought. “There should be a folder on your desk with an obscure family line. Do memorize it. Beyond that… simply brag until they leave.”

Anders laughs at that. “Oh, this should be -fun-. I promise I won’t disappoint you. If there’s anything one learns in the Circle it’s how to lie with a straight face.”

“And a skill I admire. Perfect. I’m beginning to grow rather satisfied that I took a risk on you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Anders is generally a quick study. He spends the rest of the morning studying his fraudulent lineage, and practicing a few invented family stories in front of a mirror. Feeling satisfied with his preparations, he sets his books aside and wanders down the stairs to the foyer and its enclosed garden. Sunlight is streaming in, making the space seem especially open and airy, something Anders appreciates. He draws a slow, deep breath and savors it.

It isn’t long before the house notices where he is; an apt statement, the walls might as well be alive with how often slaves are quietly milling about in the background, acting like they don’t notice but surely telling everyone else once out of sight. The activity seems to die at their notice, chores rerouted so as not to disturb him, save the host. She steps out from the dining hall, sets herself to one side of the doorway as she watches, awaiting any request.

Anders notices her presence after a few quiet moments. Somehow she manages to ease into his awareness, subtle and quiet and unobtrusive. He smiles at her, stepping over towards where she stands. “Pardon me,” he says, “but I’ve been here for weeks and I still don’t know your name.”

Her eyebrows twitch, not a true sign of anything, a flick as quick as a bird’s flit. Clearly this wasn’t what she was expecting, but unlike Fenris she doesn’t level him with any judgmental look for it or sidetrack the topic. "Dianna, serrah.“ 

Anders bobs his head politely. "That’s a beautiful name. It suits you. I’m Anders, but… I’m sure you already know that. I just thought it was about time we had some kind of proper introduction, and about time I said ‘thank you for all the tea, Dianna.’”

She blinks, gaze trailing somewhere else, and somewhere somewhat pointed lower. Not from shyness, exactly, but something else. “It is an easy enough task. You need not interrupt your thoughts over it.”

“I’m not, and it hardly has to be a labor for you for me to appreciate it.” Anders tries to follow the servant’s gaze, puzzled. “Have you served here long, Dianna?”

The line of sight points to nothing more than a corner of the large tiled floor. In Anders’ time there she hasn’t done that towards Danarius, hasn’t made pointed attempts to being submissive, but then again her Master hasn’t directed his attention to her quite so directly. “Twenty three years.”

“Your whole life, then?” She doesn’t look older than 23, at least to Anders. He’s barely older than that himself. “It’s alright if you look me in the face,” he says.

Dianna tips her chin up and meets his eyes then with a barest hint of wariness, not quite as easily trusting as her Master is to strangers. Still, she stays put, and any personal feelings swept under the polite facade. “As much as possible. I was bred for him.”

That entire idea feels uncomfortable, and Anders’ unease shows in his face. “How long has Fenris been part of the household? Is he like you, that he’s served Danarius his whole life?”

The look on his face just draws her attention, her eyes zipping to and fro over his features as if sizing him up, though in truth she’s only trying to pick out what drew that reaction from him. “Four years, serrah. Five come march.”

Anders is surprised by that answer. “Given how much importance Danarius places on him I would’ve thought he’d been here longer, like you.” And that said, he remembers who he’s talking to, and his gaze wanders over Dianna. “I’m not keeping you from anything important, am I?”

“No ser.” It makes sense enough, that her function from here would simply be to await the Master’s return. Or entertain the apprentice until that happens. “He has existed here for his entire memorable life.”

Anders narrows his eyes sceptically at that. “Funny, he’s very tall for a five year old.”

“Forgive me, but you misunderstand. He remembers nothing after the experiment.”

Anders’s eyes widen at that. “Maker’s breath,” he quietly swears. “Forgive /me/, that’s terrible.” He wonders what the early aftermath must have been like, and remembers Danarius’s words, that there was very little to Fenris that wasn’t directly Danarius’s doing. Did that mean Danarius had nurtured his slave’s stubborn pride as well? “And I didn’t mean to speak to you just to gossip about Fenris, even though it seems to have turned out that way, but, ah… Master Danarius says he’s holding a party here tomorrow night in my honor, I was hoping you could tell me what a Tevinter houseparty is like.”

Dianna’s shoulders sink a hair, easing more as the questions turn farther from her personal servitude. But she doesn’t immediately answer, unsure of where to start with that question. “Yes. What do you expect of it?”

Anders lifts one hand to the nape of his neck, rubbing the short, soft hairs under where his ponytail gathers. “Er… well… to be horribly blunt Fenris implied there was a lot of sex involved.”

……right. Dianna clears her throat with a quick, half embarrassed cough. “The formal party is nothing of the sort.” She gestures lightly to the doorway opposite the dinning hall. “Afterwards is… much of what he implied, if you wish, after the main guests have departed.”

“Then I guess I’ll see for myself tomorrow.” Anders replies with one eyebrow lifted. It has the potential to be horribly awkward, but if participation is on a voluntary basis, it’s worth sticking around. And given how refined Danarius has been so far, Anders is hoping to witness some incredibly classy debauchery. He glances at the door Dianna indicates, and then, hesitantly, he wanders over to take a look.

The room itself is unassuming. A window mimics the one in the dining hall, floor to ceiling, lighting the rather pleasant looking space. Yet more books line the opposite wall with a large fireplace at the center, a wide rug and a few chairs or sofas filling the space. It looks nothing more than cozy.  
On the far end of the room are two more doors, one leading to the familiar tiled flooring of a bathroom, the other door closed.  
Dianna follows behind, but silently, stops at the doorway to the room as Anders enters it.

Anders wanders through the room, curious. He cracks open the closed door to peek inside, when he’s satisfied there’s nothing truly overtly kinky going on that he can see.

The next room is windowless and far smaller, closer to the size of the apprentice study. It shares a door to the bathroom but beyond that faintly bounced natural light and what pours in from the opened door, the room is as dark as a closet. Inside seems simple enough at first glance, the walls ringed with a wide, well cushioned bench, and more of the same but separate and podium-like in the center.

After perusing the smaller room for a moment, Anders shrugs and leaves both chambers, closing the doors behind him. “And… I’m… not sure /what/ to think.” Anders looks away, awkward, faintly blushing, and wondering how it can be so much harder to flirt here in Tevinter than it ever was anywhere in Ferelden. Or maybe he’s lost his touch. “Have you ever been, um, a celebrant at one of these?”

“A number of them, yes, though now only by request.”

“Would you… tomorrow night, with me? I don’t have a companion, and you…” Anders smiles hopefully. “I’m sure I’m not the first to admire you and I know I won’t be the last, but you’re beautiful, Dianna.”

She does blush faintly at that, whether from his hesitant proposal or the fact that he’s asking her, directly, and not some politician mentioning her in passing to Danarius, and the request passing through the mouths of others until it loses all feeling behind it. “Yes of course, as you wish.”  
And it’s then that the front door opens and Danarius steps in, followed immediately by Fenris. Dianna excuses herself with a small, blurted apology before she turns and goes to the other two, closing the door with one hand as she takes the Master’s heavier cloak in the other.  
Fenris had seen them, watches her face as she passes near him then up to Anders with carefully, coldly neutral look. “If you no longer need me, Master.” The elf practically bolts at Danarius’ confirmation, almost stiff as he heads up the stairs.

Anders is left standing with his arm half-extended when Dianna turns and hurries for the door. That blush on her cheeks has his heart pounding, and all the awkwardness leading up to it seems worthwhile. He watches her, only glancing to Fenris when he speaks. Fenris’s neutral stare isn’t anything new, but somehow there’s something hard in the bodyguard’s eyes before he turns and bolts. Anders only tilts his head, wondering what he did wrong.  
“Welcome home, Master.” He approaches at a more leisurely pace. “I think you’ll be happy to know I’m prepared to present myself as the scion of the Valerian bloodline.” He executes a gentleman’s bow, though with a touch more deference than one peer of the realm would typically give another.

Danarius hardly takes notice of the guard’s quick escape, or the fact that Dianna flicks her gaze to the other elf’s back when she can manage to get away with it, before she makes a quick exit herself. Doesn’t notice, or simply doesn’t care. Instead he centers his attention on his apprentice, eyes narrowing and critically watching for signs of imperfection at the bow. “Quite lovely. And well timed, as I’ve managed to convince several important people that you’re worth seeing.”

“May I ask who? I can prepare a few gracious compliments, do a bit of reading on whatever their interests are, nothing overly boot-licky.” Anders straightens, giving Danarius a slanted grin. “I think I’m actually /excited/ about this. You’ve done so much for me, and now I have a chance to hold up my end of things.”

“There are twenty, I shall have a list prepared for you. I don’t expect you to remember them all but I certainly appreciate the enthusiasm. You’ll likely need it.”

“That should help me keep busy. Thank you, Master.” Anders steps back, looking around and wondering where Dianna disappeared to.

Danarius waves a hand noncommittally and finally seems to notice what a quick exit Fenris made, looking to where the slave had disappeared. “I would be lying if I said this didn’t benefit me. In fact, I should be doing similar, if you’ll excuse me.” He doesn’t actually wait for an answer but he does sound proper enough about it, if Anders mentioned something that he would stop. But he doesn’t follow where Fenris had left, instead taking the opposite stairs toward his study.

Anders nods his assent and finds himself standing alone in the foyer. He’d best get to work, he decides, given that everyone else seems to have something to keep them busy. Hopefully at suppertime he’ll get a chance to thank Dianna for giving him something to look forward to.


	6. Chapter 6

To say the party has been going well might be an overstatement, but Danarius is pleased enough all the same. The atmosphere has been truly perfected, the windows to the street making a pleasant frame of the night sky and reaching spires of the city, the glass letting in the smallest chill while the fire crackles in the hearth nearby. Several slaves drift through the crowd, passing drinks and picking away empty glasses, just to leave the room and return with more.  
Some of the guests have tried to ruin his mood, though at this point most of them are filtering out or winding down. A few of the women have commandeered a place by the window, discussing idle things but quietly meaning the new apprentice’s looks, another group of his peers politely arguing his choices regarding Hadriana, and the ones surrounding him attacking his choice of such… obscure stock. There’s an awareness but for the most part he lets his friend Octavius defend the decision for him. More importantly while the wine in his glass slowly warms to the room in his idle hand, he watches Anders handle the group surrounding him, critical senators and fellow apprentices alike.

 

Anders has been affable but reserved for most of the evening, occasionally managing to look tragic and lost in thought. One of the senators had sought to cast some aspersions on Anders’ origins the moment it was polite to put him to question, mentioning a report of the apprentice having been seen entering the household in a roughspun tunic fit for a slave. Anders had deftly replied that he had been in mourning at the time, and his mother had recently passed away after a lengthy period of illness.  
He had looked at the questioning senator with such soulful earnestness in his eyes that the sharp-faced old man hadn’t been able to meet his gaze, and had quickly stammered an appology. Anders was proud of himself. Not only had he concocted a lie that put off most questioning, it was a lie that made anyone too eager to criticise him look callous and ill-mannered. And so he’d managed to weather the barrage of questions with poise and grace.

“Well. I do hope your new apprentice proves to be an interesting addition, but it is getting late and I should retire.” Felius is a tall, thin man, brown hair greying faster than his own but no less sharp of wit as they aged. What Danarius had in Fenris, though absent, Felius made up for in simple presence, tiny crystals webbing his robes in intricate patterns that rained from his shoulders. It made him look somewhat of a diamond arrow, and he was what Danarius would consider a worthy rival. They argued often, viciously, but the other magister would never stoop so low as to take petty shots at who Danarius chose as a new apprentice. As long as the lad showed eventual talent, perhaps it was time for that bloodline to make a comeback.  
Felius also happened to be the most prominent guest there, and as he makes his announcement several other guests not-so-subtly turn their heads, and amongst the din of conversational noise there seems to be growing agreement that the party has come to an end.

Anders manages to hold onto the sigh of relief he can feel building, when at last all eyes no longer seem to be on him. As much time as he’s spent engaging the senators and apprentices, he’s been taking mental notes on how they dress, what they discuss, even what turns of phrase he hears more or less often. In these few hours he’s learned more than he had in the preceding weeks about how to blend in here, as well as how to stand out in a favorable way. And he also learned, to his surprise, that these well-bred magisters did not feel, on average, any more potent in their magic than Anders’ peers back in the circle had. They had more knowledge and more leeway, but they weren’t inherently so different from mages anywhere else in Thedas.

For as many of the guests filter out into the foyer for their cloaks and coats to be passed to them, Danarius following to offer polite goodbyes, six or so remain, and none had given Anders a particularly hard time of it. Octavius and his apprentice, an elf that seems younger than Anders but not lacking in airs, two women, one of whom has to share a few pleas with her husband that she intends to spend more time catching up with the other woman before he goes on without her, and perhaps the oddest of them twins, both with the same shortly cropped hair and the same expensive robes. They both look quite bored, arms crossed, and as Danarius finally returns one lifts a fresh glass of wine from a passing slave’s ornate silver tray, downs the fine red in one gulp and sets it back where it’d been moments ago. “/Finally/. I thought they’d never leave.”  
Danarius chuckles lightly at that, crossing through the room to the far door that had been closed the entire night, and turns back to the remaining guests as he rests his fingers along the handle. “I’m sure they did it specifically to torment you, dear Temeris.” His place is well enough of a cue, as the slaves clear out to fetch bottles of freshly opened wine to pass amongst the group.

The time it takes for the majority of the party guests to leave gives Anders a chance to take stock of who’s remaining, and size them up to some extent. Some of them he’s curious about, others seem to have far more arrogance than he thinks he can put up with for long, most notably the twins, as attractive as they are. Some of the Circle apprentices were from noble families, and even though they could no longer inherit land or title, they still managed to convey they’d been born with silver spoons in their mouth. Knowing that their parents’ donations to the Circle guaranteed the highborn brats a harrowing made it all the more bitter, having to put up with their airs. Anders takes a glass of red wine when he’s offered one, and he drinks deeply, realizing he’s begun to develop a taste for it. He glances around for any sign of Fenris, but then realizes it’s Dianna’s auburn hair he should be looking for.

Danarius finally turns his wrist and swings the door in, leads the way into the smaller room. Sconces placed high on the walls have been lit but covered so the room remains dimmed, easily well enough to see by but just dark enough to blur imperfection. Quite a few small nooks scattered across the room’s walls have been freshly supplied with small bottles. Some have already been picked from their place as slaves, naked and scattered along the wide cushioned benches, ready themselves with slick fingers and splayed legs. On the front, pillowed podium as an obvious centerpiece is Fenris, on his back and propped up by his elbows, chin cast downward to one side as a desire demon grips his hips tightly, the elf’s thighs already spread as the demon’s cock slaps against him roughly, his own erection trapped and tight from a silver ring.  
Another, oddly younger looking demon is to one side with Dianna, nipping lightly at her ear as his delicate fingers spread and slide deep between her lips, but as soon as he notices Danarius he abandons her almost immediately, slinks to the Master’s side to press a kiss on his neck and lead him back to one of the empty spaces of seating.

Anders is grateful for his place at the back of the pack. His jaw drops and his cock rises and he instantly feels far too warm in his robes. Everywhere he looks his eyes land on something he wants, even though he feels a cold stab of fear at there being demons among them. The desire demons seem to know whenever his eyes are on them, and they meet his gaze with steady, golden stares, as if to tell him he can’t deny that he wants what he sees. It’s dangerous, maybe too dangerous. If he can’t master his own cravings those demons can inevitably get the better of him.  
As he steps into the room he asks himself, is he completely ensnared in this, or does he simply trust Danarius’s power to keep these demons in check? Sinking onto the bench beside Dianna, he puts that question aside. He doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to know the answer. The sound of the demon’s hips colliding with Fenris’s ass is beating a rhythm in his ears and his pulse is pounding out an answer to it. The other celebrants are slipping their robes from their shoulders, or letting nude, flushed slaves undress them. Anders reaches out to Dianna, brushing his thumb across her lip as he brings his hand to the back of her head, cupping her hair as he kisses her.

Dianna’s kiss is light, as much a flittering thing as she tends to be. She carefully reaches up to slip Anders free of his clothes, undoes the fastening and slides them from his shoulders, a trained movement careful not to touch his skin, only the cloth brushing his shoulders and chest as her knees part, obviously wet even in this light with the demon’s handiwork, breasts slowly rising and falling from her already heavy breath.  
The demon, at least the younger that had tended to her, is too obviously distracted by the mage that summoned both as he stradles the magister’s hips, a straining and impressively large erection pressed on robes he works to pull aside, a desperation and a boldness in his movements making clear that theirs is more an agreement than servitude.  
One of the twins, the differences between them impossibly small in this light, takes an interest and pauses over Fenris and slips something from his robes while the other hooks a slave by the waist, pulls her close for a rough kiss. “We were going to use this tonight… but it appears my brother has other plans.” With Danarius far too occupied to deny it the man reaches down, holds Fenris’ cock steady as he places a thin rod to the tip. He teases at the slit, dips the end of the rod an inch in and out, slicks it in the precum welling from the elf’s throbbing head before it slips back in and is slowly worked down the length, and comes to a stop with a round, polished gold ball pressed to the head. The tiniest flicker of magic and the rod is turned on, buzzes quietly as the man leaves to join his brother at the woman, already half out of his clothes by the time he gets there. Fenris grits his teeth with a loud moan from the addition, the sound choked with a failed try at stifling it, his cock twitching and hot from the pleasurable torture.

Anders takes that light kiss as a cue, and his hands ghost their way over Dianna’s skin. His lightly calloused palms drag over her taut nipples. He just barely cups her breasts in his hands and then his palms are stroking downwards again, skimming over the subtle indentations of her ribs, to the supple concavity just above where her hips begin. She’s flawless. He can smell rosewater in her hair, clean sweat on the nape of her neck, and the warm musk of her wet sex that makes him wet his lips. He looks at the room over her shoulder as she undresses him, watching Danarius and his demon until the sound of Fenris choking back a moan catches his attention. the elf is stunning, naked and glowing with sweat, the darker hue of his skin turning to bronze in the room’s low light.  
Anders is grateful all over again that Dianna is there as he shrugs his robes off his shoulders; if he didn’t have her to hold his attention he would be beside himself over the spectacle Fenris makes. The way he squirms under the demon’s relentless fucking; the way his erection is straining, penetrated, tormented and denied; the sounds that slip out as he pants for breath… all of it piles up upon the longing he’s already felt. The demon riding Fenris looks up and over his/it’s shoulder, casting a knowing look at Anders, and the apprentice is stricken so deeply he can’t even blush. The demon’s gaze blurs with pleasure, and it moans in its strange, otherworldly voice as it leans in, whispering something in Fenris’s ear, and Anders alone knows its pleasure is from a taste of that yearning in him… from the realization that he wants Fenris in a thousand ways, for every reason and no reason.  
“Turn your head,” the demon whispers in Fenris’s ear. “Look at him. Look at the way he touches her… look at his smooth naked skin, and his… aahhh, his gorgeous cock in her hands. Watch him and I’ll tell you a secret, little wolf.”

The elf’s lips shut, wetting his dry gasping mouth before his lungs force them open again. As a clear, thin trail of precum draws lazily down his bobbing shaft he reaches out for the demon’s hip, sinks the heel of his palm against bone and steels his arm in a silent plea for them to slow down. Forcing the issue means nothing when the spirit is far stronger than even he is, slamming against him even now. At the coaxing, the demon’s lips brushing his ear and Fenris jerking his chin towards it in a strange faux intimacy between them, and he lets his eyes slip towards Anders, as cautiously as he can manage between faltering, whimpering moans.  
Dianna’s body arches along his touch, presses her breasts against the apprentice’s chest as she rocks her hips forward, grips his hardening erection to drag it and tease the plump skin between her folds before shying away, inching back on the cushions with a hand to his shoulder to drag him down with her.  
The spark of jealousy lances through Fenris almost immediately and he averts his eyes with a tiny, pained groan only the demon would know is any different from the rest. Instead his gaze lands on the other, younger demon planted between Danarius’ spread legs, a clawed hand dragging up the magister’s thigh. The sight is a similar pain, but one that’s numbed over the years, one he can tolerate unlike this fresher wound. Frankly it only does more to tease him, his cock twitching with agony for release and he lets his head fall weakly against the support of the demon’s temple. “As long as it’s not one of your lies.”

“He wants you,” the demon whispers. He gives Fenris some respite, his thrusts turning to slow, long strokes into Fenris’s body. "Desperately. There are only two things in his life he has ever wanted as badly. And even now, while he is with her, he thinks of you.“ The demon is strangely tender, lips closing on the rim of Fenris’s ear. "All of it true, little wolf.”  
Anders lets Dianna guide him down, but even as he leans over her, he doesn’t lower his hips between her long, spread legs. He kisses her again, this time probing into her mouth with his tongue. The kiss is deep but not rough, and he gives her time to accept it, time to savor it. When he lifts his head again, his shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. He drags kisses along the hollow of her throat, down to the peaks of her breasts, and while he sucks and tugs at her nipples with his teeth, he hitches is arms under her knees, spreading her even wider. Again, his kisses trail downward, his goal all too clear.

She echoes Fenris’ gentle cries, small trills half true and half played on to drive the room’s arousal, but when a woman yelps a loud moan it isn’t Dianna. The twins aren’t quite so generous with their entertainment, or perhaps too generous, the slave sandwiched and upright between them. Both of them clutch at her hips to pin her down, fingers twined through each other’s knuckles incestuously as they both take her, slow and undulating without any rhythm. Her arms are slung over one twin’s shoulders for support while the other sucks little nips at her neck, and for all of their occasional rough movements she does seem to be quite enjoying herself.  
When Fenris manages to crack open his eyes the only thing he sees is Danarius’ gaze, not locked on him as they have in the past but instead watching Anders’ movements through half-lidded but drowsily judgemental eyes, as if he were trying to grade the apprentice even now. He doesn’t bother trying to figure out what specifically has the magister’s attention, simply squeezes his eyes shut and hooks an arm over the demon’s shoulders to cling to it. Normally he wouldn’t be so direct without an order, even for something so simple, but the demon is no master he follows orders from and he uses the leverage to lean himself against their fucking, grinds the tight ring of his ass to the demon’s length to get lost in their sex again. “Finish me, Carnality. /Please./”

“But you know how I love it just before the end.” Carnality’s voice is velvety, sibilant but smooth. He stops entirely, fingers digging into Fenris’s hips as he holds him still, impaled on his shaft but unable to move, unable to grind that spot against the thick rod inside him. It’s desire that Carnality savors more than fruition, and that desperation that comes just before pleasure’s peak is sweeter than honey to him. Fenris is in dire need to plead with him so brazenly, but it tempts the demon to see how much further he can be spurred.  
Anders kisses Dianna’s supple belly below the navel, then lower again at the crest of her pubic mound. His tongue darts out, teasing the cleft of her sex at its apex, then laving along her flushed vulva. He settles her thighs on his shoulders, hands gliding up her thighs until he can spread her sex with his thumbs. Even here, she’s beautiful, the folds of her vulva a deep, blushing rose, glistening with her wetness. She’s ready for him even now, and Anders can feel his hard-on throb between his legs as he anticipates plunging into her.  
In his mind’s eye he can still see the demon’s fingers working her, rubbing quick circles over her clit and sliding into her entrance to slick themselves with her pleasure. His tongue probes that half-obscured opening, lapping at her juices, swiping upwards between the petals of her sex, over that tight, hooded bud. His tongue worries at her clit, teases it from under its hood, coaxes it harder until he can close his lips over it and suckle her there.

The sound Anders draws out of her is sweet, surprised and unexpectedly genuine. Other men had done this to her before but never /for/ her, more interested in tasting the treasure they were about to mount, a few rough and selfish licks before mounting. In their own way they had been appreciated but this was new, the apprentice’s mouth taking his time to truly please her. She finds her back arching towards his lips, breasts raised to the air with her shallow breathes and her toes pointing with the tension drawing through her shivering legs. She’s wet, more than what oil the demon spread on her and more than she expected, and without Anders there to truly kiss him she rewards him with her ragged, lightly squeaking sounds of wordless delight.  
Fenris tries rigidly to ignore her pleasure, jaw dropping as he gives some fevered jerks to his hips to free himself, but he only succeeds in teasing their sex further. He looks up to the demon’s vibrantly golden eyes, his cock thick and tight and red hot within the metal collaring it, the torturous buzzing at the slit as the shaft throbs heavy and pools long drips of precum onto his stomach. And yet, there’s still a small spirit of defiance in those green irises, even as they water from need.

Carnality moans, a quiet sound but long and rich. Fenris’s need is like the slickest, tightest stroke, the most perfect touch in the most sensitive places. The demon eases his grip on one of the peaks of Fenris’s hips to slide his hand between them. He taps the golden wand so deeply buried in Fenris’s slit. He nudges that vibrating bead to stir the long, slim rod inside Fenris, briefly taking hold of it and fucking the elf’s narrow, dripping slit with the toy.  
Anders closes his teeth over Diana’s clit as lightly as he can, giving her a tiny nip and tug before he raises his head. "I want to make you come like this,“ he murmurs to her, too softly to be heard at the other side of the room. His impatient cock is dripping onto the tufted cushions underneath them, but he lowers his mouth to Dianna’s sex again, pointing the tip of his tongue and tracing quick circles around her stiff clit, catching at the hood and pushing it back to torment the tender surface it conceals.

Dianna only makes the barest mewls of response, her pleasure questioning at the statement but in no place to challenge it even if she wanted to, nothing left as she can feel herself build, the strain along her inner thighs feeling much like a bow being strung taut, and she simply drops her head back. Her sounds are drowned easily by the twins and their theatric partner, or the two women that had come in too, each deeply serviced by a moaning slave but somehow finding their way to each other, sharing drunken kisses between them while pounded.  
And Fenris, more determined to watch the demon’s hand toying with him, his jaw dropping as his hips writhe, still pinned to the spot between the firm hand on one hip and the demon’s cock buried inside him. With a choking, loud sound escaping him that he didn’t intend, that catches even Danarius and his demon’s attention, his body shudders and tightens, and with a sharp gasp cum spills past the rod in thick spurts.

Fenris’s demon holds the wand in place with a single fingertip, causing Fenris’s surging, spasming cock to fuck itself on the unyielding metal inside it. Carnality watches the elf’s load drip onto his hand and coat it, even as he savors the feeling of Fenris’s body tensing, tightening, shuddering around his cock. He starts to thrust again, rapid and merciless, seeking his own fulfillment.  
Anders waits for Dianna’s hips to buck under him, for her sex to twitch and shudder. He can hear her gasps and moans under the sounds that come from the other couplings in the room, and for a moment, he lifts his head, glancing around the room with glazed eyes. Everywhere he looks he can see naked skin, glistening with sweat and oil. he looks at the twins’ dripping cocks, pressed against eachother inside the moaning beauty they share between them. The two women, full breasts hanging, as they’re taken on their hands and knees while their tongues tangle in one anothers’ mouths. And Danarius, imperious and wickedly sedate while his demon sucks his cock. Anders crawls forward, leaning his weight on his hands. His hips sink down, the thick head of his cock bumping and brushing against the crease of Dianna’s inner thigh. A shift, a nudge, and he’s between the lips of her dripping sex, sliding so frictionlessly to her entrance. He pauses to look her in the eyes before he sheathes himself inside her, moaning at the way she fits him like a glove.

The way Dianna moans then, her chest gasping between them, so close and now finally rewarded with what she’d felt so empty without, and she shifts her weight on his hips comfortably, a high pitched chirp as her soft bed of curls presses to his stomach, clit pressed and grinding to his skin.  
With his orgasm milking itself on the rod Fenris lets a final, smaller moan, conceding the demon’s victory if there was even one to be had here, a challenge he was doomed to fail and not the occasionally ordered but fond thing they did now and again. His head falls to one side, jaw braced by a shoulder, his cock fallen to his stomach and slick in the midst of its own pleasure, spasming as the endless buzz on the rod’s tip overwhelms it, as the demon still hits all the right places inside of him.  
Danarius had been so content to watch the room, the pleasure he had orchestrated. The apprentice, with his perfect and faintly curved erection, straining in the air where the magister can appreciate its small twitches of arousal until the thick tip is finally allowed purchase. He would have to do /something/ about it later, and before he even has time to think about it he wets his lips with the edge of his tongue. Yet Fenris is the one to inspire him, always had since he’d placed the elf there and set Carnality to him some time ago. His fingers card through the deep grey curls of the demon on him, not grey from age but a true grey, same as a forboding storm and likely just as dangerous, and with a flex of his fingers he pulls the sucking lips farther down, only content when they press to his hilt before he lets himself go.

Anders sighs in Dianna’s ear he sinks into her up the hilt. There’s a thrilling satisfaction to knowing that he’s the reason she’s dripping wet, and under the heat of lust a tender warmth that the demure servant would be so willing in his arms. He kisses the corner of her jaw as his hips start to roll, his hands at the small of her back to feel her body undulate in counterpoint. He feels like a fever has taken hold in his skin, his cheeks blazing, his chest hot, sticky with sweat where Dianna’s small breasts press against him. He whispers in her ear, small, sweet nothings about how good she feels, how he can still taste her on his lips. He takes his time, each thrust long and slow and deep, pressing in until his tip bumps against her cervix, dragging back until he nearly pulls free of her, the ridge of his head worrying at the folds of her entrance.  
Carnality is gracious in victory. He pulls the buzzing wand free of Fenris’s cock just moments before it becomes unbearable, and drops the dripping toy beside them on the bench. "That was delicious, little wolf.” His murmur is tender even if the words seem smug, his voice tight and strained with pleasure as he nears his peak. He leans back, letting Fenris watch as he sucks the elf’s seed from his hand. Just as he swallows, his pale eyes roll back and his body bucks against Fenris’s hips. His twitching cock spends itself inside Fenris in warm, wet surges while his clawed toes scrape against the cushioned bench.

Fenris is left gasping, mouth dry but the air he’s sucking in humid and warm from the room’s exertion, his spent cock finally given rest. He hardly takes note of the sweat and cum between them, on his stomach and dripping from his ass, watches Carnality’s face for only a few moments before his eyes slip, distracted, to the twins. The slave between them has finally gone quiet, down to soft whimpers as they still thrust roughly, her act lost and forgotten as she draws near and finds her own orgasm, body struggling in vain to move between them. They always took their time, and never seemed to mind who they took as long as they did it together. Fenris nearly grumbles a small sound but manages silence as he averts his eyes, lets them settle on Dianna, the demon’s words still fresh in his ears. She finally breaks the sounds of the rest of the room, raising her voice as everyone else is reduced to softer tones, her mouth parted wonderfully, not a desperate scramble for air but for a gentle cooing that escapes her, eyes drawing shut and spine arched in a perfect curve as she climaxes. When Fenris sighs it’s almost as if the release had been his own, his eyes falling to the floor.

Anders follows her soon. His shoulders hunched over her arching body, his thighs clenching tight between Dianna’s as he drives up in one final thrust. Hes lips touch her bare shoulder as he moans, choking back the sound he makes after the first instant of startled pleasure. His body is rigid, trembling for a moment, then he eases completely. He rests on Dianna, arms around her, shoulders heaving with deep, slow breathing. But when his eyes open, they’re fixed on Fenris. Carnality is holding the bodyguard’s hand, fingers interwoven, and his forehead resting on Fenris’s shoulder. Anders isn’t sure what to make of such tenderness from a demon… all he knows is he wishes he could trade places, even with his twitching, spent cock still buried in the elven servant beneath him. Carnality opens his eye just a crack, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

In contrast to the excitement of the party the following days feel subdued, in part as Danarius has important matters to attend to the next morning. He mutters something about the role of a senator sometimes being far more trouble than it’s worth at times as he leaves, Fenris in his wake. And thus most of the day is spent without either, Dianna the only familiar face and posted at the foyer. Still, once the master returns to the house his guard manages to make himself scarce, hardly a hair of him seen until the day after. Dianna interrupts the apprentice’s study shortly after lunch, quietly polite as always as she mentions to Anders that Danarius is sending him to purchase a proper staff befitting a Tevinter apprentice.  
Minutes later she holds the front door for him, a carriage awaiting and Fenris silent at its side.

Somehow Dianna always seems to be just out of reach. She’s gone before Anders can rise from his chair, and then holding the door she manages to stand behind it just enough to make it awkward to try and lean in for a kiss. He smiles at her, though, as he steps outside. It’s only when he sees the bodyguard standing there that Anders realizes how little of him he’s seen since the party. "Good morning, Fenris. Where are we off to?“ He greets the bodyguard with an easy smile, clearly in high spirits.

Fenris only levels Anders with a mildly withering look, remains just as unresponsive as Anders makes his way into the carriage and as he follows suit, unslinging the sword from his back. With a brisk knock to the front the horse sets off as the elf sits on the opposite side, the same place Anders had been when he first arrived, tied and common.  
His voice sounds quite unamused as he glances to the city that already begins to pass by the windows, the carriage taking quite the different route, deeper and away from the main road. "One hopes you were already informed.”

Anders leans back on the carriage bench, legs stretched out and ankles crossed in front of him, his arms behind his head. He narrows his eyes at Fenris. "I was told I’m going to buy a staff. I wasn’t told anything about where I’m buying it, a merchant, a workshop… Anyhow, /one/ wonders what crawled up your arse and died there.“ Anders keeps his gaze on Fenris, even as the city passes by outside the carriage windows.

“Nothing you should concern yourself with, I assure you.”  
The district Danarius takes residence in seems ancient but spotlessly kept, all blocks of solid stone, white and kept with a matching road, life flourishing but only as permitted, large trees shading the street when the mansions don’t act as a pseudo canyon, ivy allowed to trail up the walls. As the carriage continues the buildings covered in ivy grow more frequent, swallowed up in leaves until the places actually lived-in become sparser, farther apart and punctuated by ruins that have been left untouched, crumbled skeletons that retain dignity with their age. One space, as large as Danarius’ mansion if not larger, has completely fallen save the support structures; ivy-covered hills of white stone framed by precariously leaning spires, and in the center a fountain with water still pouring fourth, far from imperfect with chunks of stone fallen from the dancing figures, but still beautiful in its decay.

Anders puts one hand behind his ear mockingly. "I’m sorry, was that a /threat/?” He glances out the window, the sunlight on white marble drawing his gaze, but as beautiful as the ruined buildings can be, having a dour elf glaring at him dampens his ability to enjoy the view. Or so he tells himself as he returns his gaze to Fenris.

The sharp gaze that snaps up from the guard is a serious one, turned more dangerous than any of his icy responses a moment before, but less from a hit nerve. Fenris hardly looks hurt, all anger with a small gulp; this is more a silent warning that Anders is about to go somewhere he really shouldn’t. Little wonder, accusations of a slave threatening their master would lead to few outcomes, and almost none of them would involve Fenris’ survival. Thus his response is firmly clear. “No, it wasn’t.”

“I’ve barely even seen you these past three days,” Anders comments, frowning. He lowers his gaze to the floor, but he only ends up staring at Fenris’s bare toes. He sighs. "What happened? I tell you you’re the closest thing I have to a friend here and you start avoiding me like I’m carrying a plague.“ He sighs again, a short and frustrated huff as he shakes his head. But thinking back, he remembers the last time they spoke. "It’s because I came onto you, isn’t it. I- I’m sorry, I should have known better. We can both just forget it ever happened.”

“/Hardly./” And that’s all Fenris immediately offers on the matter, still avoiding eye contact but as the driver halts the horse he turns his head to the door, and in that moment he looks somewhat like Anders could be bred the fool for suggesting that was the problem. Before Anders can comment Fenris is standing with a blunt, “We’re here.” as he steps out and aside, holds the carriage door and drops the sharp edges to his expression once they’re in public. The carriage has stopped by a house, completely out of place with the elaborate stonework dominating the city as the walls are completely born of wood, dark and near-black and edges covered in moss. While dwarfed by Danarius’ mansion the structure is no less impressive, immensely wide logs supporting where columns would normally be, every inch carved with designs and faces and all manner of beasts, as lifesize as allowable, and like a fire the details spread from the columns and take shelter under the eaves. There’s no sign to the shop, or any true evidence that it is one in the first place, but the building itself speaks of the word of mouth that must spread for its owner.

Anders steps out of the carriage and straightens his robes, looking up at the lavish woodworking on the building’s front. At least he has something to do now besides feel embarrassed and uncomfortable, so he breezes by Fenris on his way to the door. He checks it over for any signs of a bell-pull and finding none, he simply tries the latch and steps inside. He realizes as he does so that holding the door for the slave is likely a faux pas, but it still seems absurdly rude to do anything less. "/Well./“ His eyes widen when he sees the wares on display within, a fair number of pieces that are simply objects d'art as well as rows of fine staves standing against the far wall.

Fenris is quick to catch the door, if only to save anyone the confusion of Anders’ polite gestures, gently shuts it behind him.

The work lines the walls, on shelves if it fits. The wide windows provide most of the light, and where it doesn’t reach there are skylights, columns of light perfectly highlighting finer work before radiating to the rest of the shop. The only area not covered with pieces is a working space in the corner, several unfinished staves placed on a rack, a main carving table and a nearby large set of small drawers, each face glass to reveal the gems and metal pieces within. Propped back in a rocking chair amidst it all is an older man, thin but not frail, calloused knuckles clutching a smaller knife as he works details into the wood in his hands. When he looks up Fenris looks faintly relieved at the chance to stay near the door and do what slaves do best, blend in with the furniture.  
“Ah. Danarius said you would be coming.”

The work has a fineness and artistry that Anders isn’t used to seeing in Formari-made pieces. More than simple utility was clearly in the mind of the craftsman when he made these. "Unbelievable, is this ironwood?“ Anders leans in for a closer look at one especially seamless, elvhen-styled piece. "Forgive me, Serrah, my name is Anders. Danarius sent me here to purchase a staff from you, but he didn’t give me your name…” He holds out his hand for a handshake.

“Lacomus. And yes, it is.” The man straightens and sets his work down on the table before he reaches out, his grip as firm as one would expect from an accomplished carver. “So I hear your family heirloom was snapped? A pity.” The tones to Lacomus’ voice are all even, the same strict but neutral tone that would fall from a teacher’s lips, though deep under his words are hints of skepticism, the smallest raise to one eyebrow. Certainly gossip travels fast and perhaps faster here, but if Lacomus has made up his mind about Anders he doesn’t mention it. Not when his interest lies in finding this apprentice a new staff, whatever the reason. “Now. Was there something you had in mind?”

“My area of focus is healing magic,” Anders states, perusing the staves on display as he takes slow paces through the workshop. "So I’m looking for something fairly benign, but it should still pack a punch. Something versatile.“

“Ah.” The simple response is more than what Anders is looking for, any skepticism dying as he appears satisfied, that perhaps Danarius was right for taking the young man under his wing. Lacomus raises a thumbnail to the curve between his chin and his bottom lip, gaze drifting to nothing in a moment of thought. With whatever conclusion he comes to he points in the opposite direction. “Yes. This way, I think you’ll find something quite suiting over here.” He leads Anders to a back corner, almost as if he’d forgotten where he’d placed these, which is honestly possible for the amount of work on display. While he sweeps his hand through the air to gesture the whole area three staves are lit by one of the skylights: one, the wood is deep browns like the building, gold patterns inlaid and topped by a blooming lotus, a woman clothed but bathing in the center. The next, a paler grey wood, old and twisted and likely found washed up from the sea, slowly oxidizing copper rooted into the cracks like knots and forming a perfect curl that grows thin and tightly wound until it seems that one could only fit a thread through the center. And, finally, a finely polished rosewood, the shaft itself somewhat plain but eventually taking to a myriad of branches, each terminating with a free-hanging gold leaf, a tree in miniature that even now very faintly sings as the leaves rustle together.

Anders gives the staves a hard look, but even while he scrutinizes them it’s impossible to keep the wonder out of his face. He reaches first for the rosewood staff with its golden leaves, examining the small hoops of gold that connect the leaves to their branches. "This is very fine,” he murmurs. Then he channels his magic into the staff, and the wood comes warm and alive in his hands. The golden leaves no longer hang limp, but float at the ends of the branches as if alive.   
Anders steps back to give himself room, and swings the staff in a couple of smooth arcs, examining not just how the balance feels, but whether it seems like the delicate woodwork can handle the stress of being used in combat. He’s surprised by how well it holds up. Even the carved branches become living and supple while he holds the staff, resilient against breakage. "Better than fine. The enchantments in it feel a bit elvhen-inspired.“  
Anders leans the staff against one cupped hand while he holds it in the other, just to feel the living pulse that seems to surge along the shaft. He lets his gaze unfocus as he simply feels the staff, the tone and whisper of its enchantments. It’s impossible not to personify a fine stave. This one feels… patient. Confident in the ability to weather the storms that come, and to heal. His lips quirk in a surprised smile as he isolates a few words embedded deep in the staff’s magic, and murmurs them aloud: "Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

“Do you like it?” The question is so openly honest, less wheedling for a sale and more interested in the apprentice’s feelings towards the work. Choices like these are never to be taken lightly. “It has gone for quite some time without an owner. Too long, perhaps, but I always like to think they’re simply waiting for the right person.” 

“I’d like to handle the other two before I make a decision,” Anders says, carefully putting the staff back in its place. The leaves seem to wilt as they return to hanging from the ends of the branches like pendants. "But I do like it. It has more complexity to it than most healing staves I’ve handled.“ Anders takes up the staff that appears to be driftwood, inlaid with copper. It’s smoother to the touch than he expects, and as he channels into it, he can feel crackling energy in the hair-thin gaps between copper and wood. "Maker, this one’s energetic…” He gives the staff a few easy swings, grinning. It feels as much like an elementalist’s staff as a healer’s, which suits Anders fine. The enchantments feel friendly to him, with a volatile restlessness he recognizes as akin to his own. But after the living suppleness of the other staff, this one feels brittle and somehow on the edge of erupting into lightning and fire. After a moment’s consideration, he shakes his head and puts it back. "This one and I have too much in common,“ he says with a dry chuckle.

“You would likely be amused to know how many apprentices seem to think that that’s exactly what they should be looking for.” Quite so, Lacomus has seen far more apprentices leave with their first true staff, one with a deeply seated personality of its own unlike the beginning plain things they practice with, only to see them again shortly after. “Sometimes I must accept this work to be ephemeral, on more than one occasion students have returned to tell me their results were rather… permanently damaging.”   
The next staff lights almost of its own accord in a sort of anticipation, a warm glow of stones hidden within the flower’s petals and all turned upward toward its center.

Anders grins at that. "I’m usually the last person to turn to for a lesson in humility or good judgment,” he says. "But it’s better to have a staff that compliments your powers rather than, er, encourages you at your worst. It’s like having the kind of best friend you tend to wake up with in a prison cell, with a hangover and somehow you’re in somebody else’s smalls. Just because you like the fellow doesn’t mean he’s good for you.“   
Anders reaches for the lotus staff then, that wondering look back on his face as it reacts even to his focused attention. He lifts it from the rack and immediately he can hear the chime and hum of its magic, sweet and alluring. "Now this one feels like a spirit medium’s. It’s… outgoing, full of charm…” Full of whimsy and ideas, as well, and Anders feels as if his mind is calm and limber with this staff in his hands. He swings the staff and the tune of the magic in his mind swirls dizzyingly, conveying to him the feeling that he’d just been swung himself. "Empathetic. Excellent for a healer.“  
He considers it, looking back and forth between the lotus blossom and the more sedate gold-leafed tree. In the end, with a sigh, he puts the lots staff back, but when he takes hold of the rosewood tree again he begins to smile. "This is the one, I think. It has the versatility I’m looking for, and a sense of resilience. Not an easy choice, I might add. That lotus-blossom staff is superb. Someone’s going to be very lucky to wield it someday. How many sovereigns do I owe you for this, and has he got a name?” the golden leaves are swaying on their branches again, and an almost subliminal chime sounds whenever Anders moves the staff.

“Luminous Sunset.” The name rolls off the man’s tongue immediately with no thought, and he likely knows the name of every last one in the room, if not every one he’s sold. Lacomus flutters a hand at any further discussion of price, shooing at it like some pesky gnat. “Pay the price no mind, boy, your master has already agreed to pay it. I’ll have the bill sent along.” Meanwhile another slave, a thin wisp of a girl with ears long and delicate, features accentuated by the intricate designs patterning her face makes her way in quietly from a back door. She hovers politely around the workbench, writes down a note on a small paper, folds it neatly and pads to where Fenris has been silently waiting to pass it to him.

“It’s exquisite. Thank you for your time and assistance.” Anders bobs his head politely, but when he takes another look at his new staff, he grins boyishly. "We’ll be on our way, then.“ As he’s turning back towards the door he sees the slave passing a note to Fenris, and assumes it to be the bill for the staff. He gives the bodyguard a hopeful smile, on the off chance that his mood might have improved since they got here.

“Of course. Do come see me if there’s any trouble.” But the way Lacomus says it he doesn’t suspect any at all, a smile edging to that strict expression that this staff finally found someone. He ducks his head as he turns back to his workbench, hand rustling through his short scruff of hair that’s more silver than black these days, the dalish girl already zipping back out of sight as soon as she can, never once meeting Anders’ gaze.   
Fenris is still as flawlessly neutral as he was when they first stepped out the carriage; despite Danarius’ words otherwise he certainly looks like he could pass as Tranquil now, a trained and undecipherable blank look as he pulls the door open for the apprentice.

Anders keeps his gaze on Fenris while he walks past, turning his head as he steps through the door. The sun is still bright outside, and the leaves of Sunset are dazzling. He looks at the building’s woodwork again while he waits for Fenris to open the carriage door. "Are we expected back at the manor immediately?”

Fenris is quick in his step without losing his composure, but once he opens the carriage he pauses, with a small blink, and for a split second he looks surprised. “No. Did you wish to go somewhere?”

“Is there anywhere with a good view of the city? It might help me get a sense for the geography. It’s not urgent.” That split-second break in Fenris’s stoney veneer makes Anders smile. Not so much because he thinks he’ll manage to make peace, but because of the way Fenris’s eyes look for those brief, unguarded moments.

Fenris goes back to looking cold soon enough, or rather, slightly bored that he’s still holding the door. “Likely from one of the Circle towers, but you need approval to go there.”

Anders rolls his eyes and climbs up into the carriage. "You really are awful today. Are you determined to be this unhelpful from this day forth or may I look forward to you getting over this?“

Fenris follows, settles into the opposite seat as the carriage decidedly heads back home, since the tower is out of reach for now. “You asked a question, and I answered it to the best of my ability. I’m not sure what more you’re looking for.”

"I think you do know what more I’m looking for.” Anders casts a level stare across the carriage cabin, settling his staff in the crook of one arm. 

“I could have Dianna draw a map for you.” Fenris’ tone is just as neutral as his expression, maddeningly so, spitefully vague in such a way that would sound simply politely performing his duties should Anders try to tell anyone else.

Anders blinks owlishly at Fenris. A snippy response rises to his lips but he shuts his mouth again before he says a word, and his skeptical look shifts to incredulity and then amazement. "I… thought you didn’t care for… cartography.“

Fenris sighs heavily, and while his exasperation speaks of some opinion that Anders is as dumb as a sack of bricks, some sort of response is likely better than what’s been coming out of his mouth thusfar. Even if he seems to completely ignore the blatant meaning in Anders’ words. “It was only a suggestion.”

Anders smiles, that frustrated sigh like music to his ears. Now he’s getting somewhere. "I don’t need a map. Maybe you can just give me some directions orally. Or I could just go /south/ until I reach your /spire/ and let you know what I think of the view. Though I’d do more than look.”

Anders is rewarded with another split second emotion, as Fenris utterly can’t hide his face from twisting into something teetering between disgust and slight horror, but the details of it are gone too fast to make out. “Innuendo is somewhat pointless if your intent is to proposition me.”

“Fine then.” It takes effort, but Anders manages to subdue his puckish smirk. “I want to be with you. I want to make up for making you jealous. I want to apologize for screwing up. And I want to take you to bed. Is that alright for a proposition?”

“If that is what you wish, Serrah.” The polite address is half sigh half word, still pointedly cold and if anything, he looks unconvinced that Anders will be able to do anything of the sort. 

Anders leans back, his steady gaze conveying that he accepts Fenris’s challenge. And then he turns, gazing out the carriage windows for the remainder of the trip.

As soon as they return to the mansion Fenris is almost impossible to find, just as scarce as he had been before they left.


	8. Chapter 8

Evening turns to night, and it’s dark inside the manor, though the songs of night insects mitigate the silence. Anders sits on the edge of his bed, in nothing but his smallclothes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He sifts through the same handful of memories again and again, wishing so much wasn’t left ambiguous. He remembers what Danarius told him, that the slaves would show their feelings if he paid attention.  
Anders rises to his feet, and it’s the action that alerts him to his decision being made. It’s an issue worth pressing, and it’s up to him to do it. With a small sphere of magelight at his fingertips, he steps into the hall and pads barefoot to the door to Fenris’s room. Suspecting he knows what the answer will be if he knocks, he simply tries the latch.

The hinges turn easily with little sound to stir the hall, no visible lock and no reason for there to be one when a slave’s time is not his own. Inside the room, while far smaller than the apprentice quarters, looks expansive simply from its emptiness; only a plainly constructed bed and a set of drawers equally furnished for bare function. The large sword is set upright to the wall near the bed, tip slowly digging a small groove in the floor from resting there each night, and buried in the covers is that head of white hair, bright even in this darkness.  
The silent moment is short lived as the elf practically springs awake, one hand flinging aside the covers while the other claws against the mattress to force him up from his back when he freezes, finally notices who it is and that there’s no emergency. He remains as he is, silent as he watches Anders warily.

Anders waits by the door for Fenris to recognize him. Once Fenris looks him in the eyes, he moves forward again, head bowed, and he sits down on the edge of the bed, folding his hands between his knees. His loose hair veils his face a bit in profile. He wastes a few silent moments trying to think of something to say, before he abandons the effort and leans toward Fenris to kiss him.

For the words Anders doesn’t have Fenris provides no help but when they kiss he returns it, weakly, a pained willingness that leaves his brows knitting as his lips pull to seal them. But the rest of him doesn’t move, in a way doesn’t dare to, still as motionless save his arm, as it finally drops lamely at his side, the blanket crumpling in his loose fist and half-baring him.

“I’m sorry,” Anders whispers. “I won’t do it again.” Anders slips his arms around Fenris’s naked back. He feels supple and solid at the same time, everything he could’ve anticipated from seeing him displayed and more. Anders kisses him again, letting their lips seal together and linger that way, hoping that tenderness might heal what hurt he’s done.

Fenris finally leans forward to Anders’ mouth, stays and lets the heat build somewhat, eyes still closed but brows raising, gentle upward curves towards the middle. “You don’t need to act as if I’m something you must win over.” With Anders embraced to him the elf sinks back to his elbows, moving carefully and deliberately slow, as if going any faster would snap them apart, and when Anders provides no resistance he raises the cover still clutched in his hand to draw it over their shoulders.

Anders slinks into bed, arms still wrapped around Fenris, and legs intertwined with his as well after a moment of shifting and settling. He smiles at Fenris’s words, blushing in the darkness. “I’m not used to unearned kindness. Or earned kindness, really. You’re so generous with me.” Anders dips his head to kiss the shallow hollow of Fenris’s clavicle, feeling his pulse against his lips. 

Fenris lets his hand drop back to his side, elbows pressed to the mattress with their weight and his hands sprawling. His eyes finally open, just a crack in the darkness and safe with the man’s head turned though he likely wouldn’t be able to see anyway. But for all that he’s hidden his lungs betray him, breaths coming softer, quicker at the edges, faltering his words just enough that he doesn’t sound nearly as serious as he intends to. “I have to be.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, though. Not with me.” Anders can feel Fenris’s pulse quicken. He notices the way his breathing turns shallow and tight. He sits up slowly, the blankets still around his shoulders, and gazes down at Fenris. “This is just… untenable, isn’t it? I want you but not as a slave. I won’t force you, I’m just trying to get you to say ‘yes’ when I know you’re not allowed to say no.”

It seems this is a far more complicated thing than the party was. Fenris stares up as Anders pulls away, the whole of him going quiet, seeming weaker for it. “Then give me better orders.”

“If you want me, kiss me. Now.”

Fenris winces, faintly, but pushes himself up and closer to where Anders had retreated to, and with heels of his palms planted to the mattress he leans his head closer, tips and presses his lips to the underside of Anders’ jaw, and again, barely lifting away before trailing closer towards his ear. So, not a perfect execution, but better.

Anders holds stock still as Fenris kisses his jaw. He breathes out, slow and tight, his body trembling, his eyes closing so he can shut out everything but the touch of Fenris’s lips and the sound of their breathing. His arms wrap around Fenris again. “Now tell me how you want me to treat you. How you want me to be.”

His lips pause, hovering near an earlobe, but at length he turns his chin before they meet. “It’s not my place to tell you. Everyone else already knows you won’t punish them for any offense. There is nothing I want that you don’t already give in spades.”

Anders shoves his hands through Fenris’s hair, pulling him in for a deep kiss. There’s passion in the gesture, confidence that Fenris’s words help him find. His lips part and his tongue slips across Fenris’s lips and past them.

Fenris sighs, a soft sound like he’s melting even as his shoulders push him forward, and tips his head with a small lean to one direction, aligning their lips as he parts his readily. As he relaxes he draws a knee up, and lets his support carefully fall to his elbows again, head strained forward to coax Anders back down with him. But for all the leading he isn’t dedicated to keeping them pressed and sealed together, his mouth moving in small puckers, more interested in the small smackings it makes.

 

Anders lets Fenris draw him down into that embrace. It feels like pure luxury to him. Fenris’s bed is as soft as his own, the covers warm and Fenris’s skin warmer still. He lets the kiss cascade into an onslaught of quicker, hungry kisses, lips closing against lips, tugging, parting, pressing. His breath is quick and heavy. He straddles one of Fenris’s thighs as he settles his weight on him, and his stirring cock rests along the crease of Fenris’s hip, heavy and hot.

The elf feels as if he can barely catch his breath to the onslaught and he doesn’t mind, barely caught gasps between them, his chest catching and his drawing erection leaning to his bent leg. This isn’t the party, there’s no overdramatic wails of pleasure, only air sucked between teeth and small shudders, and Fenris’ hands spread and planted to the bed like they were glued to the mattress, knuckles straining up and pads pressed down.

“You can touch me.” Anders murmurs into Fenris’s ear. He wonders if he needs to give permission, or if he’ll learn to know the ways Fenris restricts himself, and how to free him from those strictures from time to time. He kisses Fenris under the chin, just between the two marks that curl their way up to his lower lip, and he trails more kisses downward, a wry awareness in his head that this is what he did for Dianna only a few nights ago. He supposes this is one way to make amends.

As soon as those words leave Anders’ lips Fenris darts a hand upward, some rope tying his wrist down snapped free. Tentatively the tips of his fingers brush the small of the blonde’s back, a small tickling that presses closer as he lays his hand flat, then sinks his palm while he arches his back, half clinging and half pulling them together as much as he can manage.

Anders moans at that pressure, some hint of Fenris’s strength showing through. His lips part where they were kissing at the hollow of his throat, and he grinds his hips down against Fenris, the pressure of his hands seducing him away from his goal. His arms slip under Fenris’s arched back and hold him tight, clinging to him with just as much force and urgency.

With little argument Fenris spreads his thighs, muscles tightening, along his stomach and down his back under Anders’ hands, as he rocks upward, the throat of his bare cock sliding along on the soft fabric of the apprentice’s smalls, and along the straining erection under them. His mouth closes to gulp, a small bob at his neck and he gasps afterward, even that small moment suffocating.

Anders hitches one thumb under the waist of his smalls and shoves them down. He leaves them on, gathered below the curve of his rear in a narrow strip that almost restrains him. His hips shift and press down on Fenris again, grinding the tender underbellies of their erections against one another, rocking forward to let their tips just barely kiss, a heavy drop of his precum coming to pool just below the flare of Fenris’s cockhead.

It twitches, a light bounce that barely taps Anders’ cock before he rocks his hips forward and holds, trapping them between their stomachs, balls draped to each other. With a small hissing gasp Fenris drops his his head to one side, not completely unlike when he was under the demon, but his gaze is more pointed to the open door of the bathroom. A jar of oil rests right around the corner, blatant and on the counter, but that makes it no closer to where he is. “Wait..” The word is choked, forced out as much as he fights his will just to make himself sit up.

When Fenris speaks Anders follows his gaze, even as his hips keep rolling, slow and restless, to rock their shafts against eachother. “Stay here,” he whispers, punctuating it with a kiss below Fenris’s ear. He throws the blankets back and rolls off the bodyguard, making a quick return with the jar. He climbs back onto the bed, knee-walking to straddle Fenris’s hips, gazing down at him with dark, inviting eyes.  
He licks his lower lip as he closes one hand around the jar’s lid and twists. Or tries to. His grip tightens and his arm strains, the look on his face somewhere between embarrassed and incredulous. Another try and he’s squeezing the jar under one arm while he tries to twist the lid with the opposite hand, grunting with the effort. “Andraste’s knickerweasels, what did you do, weld this shut??”

Fenris huffs a breathless, quiet chuckle, completely unable to hide it after watching Anders’ numerous futile attempts though he doesn’t quite smile. The break has made his lungs slow though they still rise noticeably, lips parted and eyes glassy, both catching the tiny light still creeping in from the magic-lit streets outside. He offers out his hand lamely, palm up. “Not that I know of.”

Anders hands over the jar sheepishly, but the corners of his mouth are quirking upward with how hard he’s trying not to break into laughter. He falls forward onto all fours and begins peppering Fenris’s naked belly with kisses. “You are so exquisite,” he murmurs, holding out one hand for the opened jar.

Fenris doesn’t answer, the jar lid popping loose easily in his hands, and he obediently sets it into Anders’ uplifted palm. The muscles under those small kisses flex, not a sharp hardness but a fluttering shiver, skin tickled where such a touch is strange and new, his dick straining upward in a vague curve, tip still glossed with the kissed drop of precum just under the rim.

Anders touches his lips to the base of Fenris’s cock. He sets the jar down beside beside them and curls his hand around Fenris’s shaft, giving it a slow stroke while his gaze settles on that glistening, fat drop of precum at the spot where his frenum gathers. His tongue darts out and licks it away. After a moment’s pause he resolves the debate in his head and guides Fenris’s tip into his mouth, his tongue swiping across the head in eager strokes.

The well defined edge to Fenris’ jaw drops farther. Even as his knees move farther apart to give Anders space he looks struck with surprise, eyebrows unlocked from the elf’s usual neutrality and all but forgotten, raised high past his half-lidding eyes. His deeply flushed, pink tip is spread smooth and plump but still gives easily to Anders’ tongue, the small dip to the slit faintly sweet.

Anders lets is eyes roll shut, a look of utter indulgence on his flushed face. He takes more of Fenris into his mouth, sucking him incrementally harder while his tongue lavishes attention on the shaft. He reaches for Fenris’s wrist and guides his hand to his hair, then rests his hand on his smooth inner thigh. He lifts his head until Fenris’s tip rests on his tongue again, his lips sealed just past the ridge of the head. The tip of his tongue teases at Fenris’s slit, pointed and firm and seeking another sweet drop of his pleasure.

The moans from Fenris, his cock trickling precum easily with such coaxing, are barely sounds at all. They sound more like unexpected cracks, little punctuations between his faltering gasps, each as quiet as a whisper. His fingers knit into the blonde hair, his hand giving the lightest pressure as Anders’ tongue teases at him, his eyes closing and his balls tightening. It takes a few moments longer before he can finally recall his words. “You’re doing this again?” Fenris’ voice isn’t critical but more baffled under his thick pleasure.

Anders doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps his lips wrapped around Fenris’s shaft, head bobbing as he sucks, eyes shut and brow furrowing while he mulls over Fenris’s surprise in the back of his mind. Finally he lifts his head, panting for breath, lips plump and red. “Is that strange? Doesn’t any master in Tevinter get off on making somebody come?” He drags his tongue along Fenris’s frenum from base to tip, but pauses before he takes him into his mouth again. “You can, by the way. Come in my mouth.”

Fenris just manages a shudder of a quick nod, voice going weak and half groaned as Anders pulls away and stops, even if temporarily, his cock left throbbing and slick with saliva and precum. More begins to trickle from his slit, a clear bead mixing with the rest at the fresh memory of Anders’ warmth and in anticipation of what he’s about to bring himself to say. “He does.. but not like this.” He gulps, wetting the back of his dry throat. “I’d rather you take me.”

Anders lifts his head again after only a few more slow sucks along Fenris’s shaft. “/Gladly/,” he breathes. And a moment later, a generous scoop of lube on his fingers, he realizes how hard it must have been for Fenris to say that out loud. “Any pleasure you want me to give or receive… I won’t be offended if you ask. The worst I’ll do is say no.” He brings his fingers to Fenris’s anus, tugging at the cleft of his ass with one thumb to spread him. His slick fingertips paint that tender pucker with a smear of lubricant before they start to tease their way inside.

Fenris lets his mouth hang open, momentarily just lost in the moment and all the care Anders puts to him. Carnality hardly paid the same courtesies, adding oil as they needed. While his ragged breathing slows to one calmer, more luxurious, his eyes closing to focus on the pulls and rubs and gentle stretching of Anders’ fingers, it also leaves him antsy, but even with the apprentice’s reassurance he can’t bring himself to ask. Instead he leans his hips as he opens his eyes again, and lifts his ass a few inches from the bed as he arches his legs, heels lifted and balls of his feet digging into the mattress.

Anders cheeks flush an even deeper red. Fenris may not say a word, but the way he moves tells him everything, as if that arching spine and curling toes were written volumes on how he wanted Anders inside him. Anders moans at the sight of it, at the feeling of Fenris’s body flexing around his fingers, and his patience evaporates to almost nothing. He’s still gentle when he pulls his fingers free, and he still takes the time to slick his own shaft with glistening oil. He crawls over Fenris, nudging his legs wide apart with one knee and finally lowering himself between them. With one hand at the root of his cock he guides himself in, panting for breath as his thick tip broaches Fenris.

Anders is met with some resistance to that fat tip, a moment as he presses firmly against Fenris but neither give, and then forces in with a small pop as the ridge squeezes then flares past the tight ring. There’s hanging his mouth open but then there’s the true shock of pleasure and Fenris pulls his jaw further, a vague snarl and his brows knit. With a small groan he lets his heels sink back down, his ass impaling itself farther, tight on Anders’ cock and hugging at his thick shaft as it drags past.

Anders’ breathing is loud and hoarse in Fenris’s ear as he pushes himself deeper. Fenris is tight, almost overwhelmingly so. Tight enough that he can feel his own pulse as he hilts himself, grateful for the time he took making sure Fenris would be lubed enough for him to move. Even so, he adds more oil as he pulls his hips back, biting his lip to keep back the tide of completely astonished curses that threatens to overflow. His next thrust is smoother and even deeper, and he rests his lips against the curve of Fenris’s neck, moaning against him, nearly whimpering.

Fenris whispers to Anders’ ear as he leans their heads together, cheek to cheek and warm from their arousal, the elf’s face growing vibrantly rosy, his sighs hot on Anders’ ears and followed with a small, pleading kiss to his earlobe. Fenris tries to shift on the cock pinning him, and as a foot slips in its desperate movement he breaks the kiss, a surprised moan escaping him and immediately choked down to something quieter, something pointedly between them and no one else.

That quiet moan Fenris stifles receives its near echo in response from Anders’s throat. He shifts on Fenris, turns his head to kiss his lips, not deeply but softly. He can taste Fenris’s breath and he draws it in with parted lips every time their kisses break apart. His thrusts are deep and steady, but his pace is slow, his hips rocking up against Fenris’s ass with deliberate, relentless pressure. He slips his arms under Fenris’s shoulders, holding them together once more.

Fenris’ hands drop back to the mattress, less frustrated and more drinking in the overwhelming grinding into him, hands braced roughly to the bed but not fighting to leave it. The apprentice was impressive enough to look at during the party but he’s thick, almost too thick, just on the edge and it stretches the elf’s ass full, squeezed for every thrust. Fenris closes his eyes again, lets them drift shut as he tries to return each kiss, lips puffy and barely able to close their mouths together nearly as finely as he could when they started.

Even the slow pace he sets has Anders sweating, his arrousal stoked as high as he’s ever felt it. With their lips so close together, Fenris can feel the flutter of air for every pant and moan Anders tries to stifle, as well as the ones he gives voice to. His rhythm staggers now and again, and he pauses, pulling an arm free of their embrace to add more oil and smooth away any rough edge to their slow fucking. Then he stops abruptly, moaning loud, bringing his hand down to choke himself back at the base of his cock. “Fuck, I’m close…”

The strain that works every inch, every hot vein pulsing through the long shaft, Anders’ well defined edge that sweeps forward and drags on the retreat, the plump but wide tip that plows against that deeply set space behind Fenris’ cock. His balls are tight, erection tighter and pressed up firmly to Anders’ stomach, and every thrust rubs the underside and nudges at the tip. The starts and falters, the broken rhythm is what catches and gathers his nerves tight, and with a surprised, cracked moan Fenris cums, cock leading his body as it spasms, warm lines of jizz spurting across his chest and electricity sparking down his legs, flexing his thighs and curling his toes.

Anders realizes he isn’t going to be able to hold it back. With Fenris spasming around him, some of his unnatural strength showing in the way his legs hug his hips, Anders starts to thrust again, a quick flurry that has his hips smacking into Fenris’s firm rear end. He comes with a startled shout, the precipice of his climax rushing up to meet him. His arms tense and tighten and crush Fenris against his chest while his hips roll, his cock leaping and throbbing and pulsing out his seed to make those last shallow thrusts smoother than satin.

Fenris desperately turns his head to find Anders with a kiss. Not the lust-dazed, loose movements but tight and pressing, sealed together and while he doesn’t silence the apprentice’s orgasm he muffles the tail end of it. Their following quiet sounds escape their throats and mingle on their tongues, every quick rock and jerk as they milk themselves against each other.

Anders soaks up that tenderness like a dry sponge, even struggling to catch his breath between the warm, wet kisses Fenris drowns his cries in. When his climax subsides he feels like the room is spinning around them, like every muscle in him has gone perfectly slack and Fenris’s body beneath him is the only thing holding him up, and doing it as perfectly as water would cradle a floating body. “That was… good…”

The chuckle that comes from Fenris is muted, more felt than heard, from the breathy shudder in his chest to the heat across his lips. Even as it dies his lungs are left slowly heaving, waves under Anders as his lungs suck in air. His head drops like lead weights to the apprentice’s shoulder, every last muscle too tired, and the best response he manages is a mumbled and tired, “mm.”


	9. Chapter 9

The morning comes early, thin windows placed just so to fill the room with the morning light. A single beam of gold filters in, striking the middle of the bed in a glowing flare and beginning to warm the room from the cold that had slowly settled there during the long hours of the night.   
Though neither of them really notice. Any biting cold similarly goes unnoticed between the thickly padded blanket and the two bodies under it, even if Fenris hardly touches the other man with him. Quite the opposite; he sleeps on his own, arms loosely crossed over his stomach, the only remaining intimacy from him being the way his forehead is pressed to Anders’ shoulder.

 

Anders opens his eyes. He turns his head, the tousled white hair of the head resting on his shoulder brushing across the end of his nose. The first thing to come into his head is an estimation of how much time he might have before Fenris is expected to do any actual work, and whether that interval would be enough for a reprise of the previous night. His dick, already half swollen from a full bladder, tents the covers as that idea gets more careful consideration.

The apprentice’s small stirring picks at the edges of the elf’s consciousness at first, drowsily cracking his eyes open. Fenris doesn’t seem entirely unused to waking up with someone else nearby, but when he finally gets a glance at who that is and it doesn’t match up with what he expects he jumps a mile, elbow shot down and digging into the mattress as he props himself up and back a few inches defensively, before finally realizing and remembering the nights before. His shoulders relax after some silent coaxing but he still plants to the spot his spooked instincts had left him, unsure of what to say.

Anders raises an eyebrow at that. At least that reaction serves to wither his erection, though he sits up in bed to hide it somewhat. "Can’t say I’ve ever gotten that response from anybody who went to bed with me sober. Good morning to you, too.“ His tone is dry, his eyes a bit narrow. He swings his legs off the bed, puts his feet on the floor, his back turned to Fenris as he rises and discretely stretches his back.

“I apologize.” Fenris feels his cheeks go hot as soon as he hastily replies and he sits upright stiffly, eyes down and looking uncomfortable, as if tied tightly to the spot. He doesn’t cling for mercy like he’s seen other slaves do, but all the same he knows that tone and assumes the worst of it despite Anders’ usually easygoing nature. “You took me by surprise.” And it sounds like a stupid excuse, a rushed one because it is, though truth.

Anders looks over his shoulder. "It’s alright,” he says in a softer voice. Some of the shrewdness goes out of his eyes. "I was worried you were… I don’t know what I was worrying. I’m sorry I snapped at you.“ Anders crouches beside the bed, searching the floor and the blankets for his discarded smallclothes.

Fenris regards Anders quietly, glancing up past his eyebrows and the mussed hair obscuring his vision and not yet willing to move of his own accord, not unlike a beast that knows its done something horribly wrong. It takes a few long moments of silence after Anders’ reassurances before he musters his voice to end the silence. “…What are you doing?”

"Getting my smalls.” Anders looks up from his search, his hair in his face until he pushes it back. His eyes are wide, questioning, as he’s only done what he thought was expected. "I … assumed you wanted me to make myself scarce. I mean, we both have work to do.“

Fenris simply lets his eyes drop as he starts to move to get off the bed. “If you wish. I wasn’t aware you’d been given a schedule.”

"Not as such, but I don’t want to find out what will happen if Danarius gives up on me.” Anders finds his smalls, a wad off linen jammed under the sheets. He steps into them and pulls them up. "But…“ He stands, watching Fenris’s back, and finally he sighs, a surrender. He shoves his hands through his hair to pull out at least some of the tangles in it. "Alright, let me explain. I’m sorry.”

Fenris is left pausing, one foot still resting on the bed, half in and half up, completely still and awkward as he just stares at the apprentice. He can never guess at the man’s actions, his responses to anything unpredictable and jarring just enough that Fenris never feels any comfortable groove to fall into line and walk it confidently. “You mentioned that already. Yesterday.”

“No, I’m sorry about… being a git this morning.” Anders plops himself down on the bed with a frustrated grumble, shoulders slumping. “Did you want anything to do with me now that you’ve had a ride, or should I shut up now and be gone? Because if all you wanted was last night, that would make you like most of the people I’ve been with. Will I be happy with that? No. Will I respect your wishes? Yes. That’s all.”

Fenris is silent a moment, still unmoving until he remembers midthought that perhaps he should sit while he carefully chooses his words, and he does so bluntly, sudden and heavy. Even when he’s found what to say he seems hesitant, but all of Anders’ talk asking what he wants, maybe he should voice himself. “If I understand you correctly… you suggested that we do this, you came to my bed last night, and now at dawn you accuse me of not wanting you.” 

Anders shoves both hands through his hair again, head ducked down and turned away. “You don’t need my nonsense.” His right hand pounds the mattress before he shoves himself to his feet, and he heads for the door in long, quick strides.

Fenris goes quiet, and just watches him leave. What can he do otherwise? Commanding a master to stay would sound ridiculous. If only he hadn’t startled so easily. The best he manages is a quiet “As you wish.”, the reply late and probably unheard.

The door shuts, and Anders’s footsteps are muted and swift in the hall.

He waits until he hears the apprentice’s door close, the hall settling again into silence. There’s likely a small miracle in the fact that no other slaves ever venture to this space of the mansion in the early morning, and when a short time has passed Fenris pulls on fresh smalls and his pants, and carefully ventures out the door to his room. Even with his surety he glances down the hall, but instead of following Anders he opens Danarius’ door instead. The man is still sleeping, windows oriented so the sun isn’t nearly so harsh in the morning, and he lightly pads to the far more luxurious bed to slink onto it and curl at Danarius’ side atop the covers, forehead pressed to shoulder.

Danarius sleeps half-curled on his side, and as Fenris cuddles against his shoulder he extricates his arm from the blankets. Yawning, he cards his fingers through Fenris’s hair, long nails dragging lightly across his scalp. “There’s a sweet pet,” he murmurs sleepily, eyes still shut.

Fenris tries to just forget about Anders if the apprentice wants so desperately to be done with him, and nuzzles against Danarius’ shoulder until he finds a perfect angle to bury his eyes from the light comfortably. But at best he lets out a frustrated sigh, the smell of sex lingering on him despite the quick bath in the middle of the night.

“Under the covers, my pet.” Danarius yawns again, this time opening his eyes just a crack, as if still debating the subject of being awake. He can see a sliver of pale sunlight through the heavy velvet curtains that drape the windows of his bedchamber. He rolls over in bed to face Fenris. He’s rested well, and the lines in his face are a bit less harsh, though the orbits of his eyes are darkened. “Off with your clothing,” he adds, watching unabashedly. Fenris’s hair is more tousled than usual, and there’s a faint scent of sweat on his skin, sweat not his own. “You shall tell me what you’ve gotten up to last night.”

“The apprentice.” Fenris doesn’t elaborate on that as he rolls his hips to pull off what meager clothing he’d slipped into, peeling his pants down this thighs and calves and ankles. What more is there to say, though as the word leaves the slave’s mouth so does the faintest hint of exasperation, as his memory churns up the entirety of the morning’s events. With the clothes dropped to the floor he picks at the edge of the covers and slips under them, movement careful at first but Fenris settles close, sets his forehead back to Danarius’ shoulder when he’s done.

Danarius settles his arm around Fenris once more, nails and fingertips stroking lightly along his back, seeking and tracing the lines of lyrium etched in his skin. “Feeling ambitious, little wolf? He’s a bit more than you’re used to.” Danarius chuckles richly, his hand gliding down to the firm, perfect curve of Fenris’s rear. He cups that hemisphere, tugs it, drags the pad of his fingertip over Fenris’s anus. “As much as you bite your tongue it seems you’ve taken a shine to the lad.”

“He.. has strange ideas.” A lame reason but while his master might be completely right, Fenris has no idea why he feels drawn to Anders when most of the time he’s perplexed or irritated with him. He sighs through his nose at the small tease, shifting his hips restlessly at it and his cock filling lazily.

“He will learn.” Danarius’s reply is confident, reassuring. The tease is only momentary, and soon his hand is ghosting away, a stroke down his thigh and back up over his hip. “It’s a shame his appearance is somewhat …coarse. I might have him take Carnality’s place at our next revel, otherwise. This fondness between the two of you is quite fortuitous.”

Fenris just softly grumbles at that, ‘fondness’ is certainly not a word he would choose, and as aggressive as the demon is, that would just be something else of his usual routine that the new apprentice would be mucking up. But he outright voices none of it, leaves his feelings to that small sound then drops it.

“Speak your mind, pet.” Danarius says the words levelly, a detached note entering his voice. “If, that is, you think anything that happened the night of our last revel and since has somehow remained unknown to me. Jealousy is unbecoming a slave.”

For a small time Fenris doesn’t respond, simply sighs to force his mind to silence and focus on his Master’s touch. Everything deep in his gut burns, not a wildfire but a slow and more sinister simmering that eats away at him. He wants to tell Danarius about everything, what Anders has told him and how he feels so toyed with lately, like some child had found his father’s weaponry only to dull the blade against a tree. At least Hadriana had a mind to her of what he was when she abused him.  
But Danarius was right, complaining about it at length would get him nowhere at best, and Anders was still within his rights, as eccentric as he might go about them. So he collects himself with that careful exhale, to take his personal whining out of his words. “He gives me mixed orders that confuse me. It won’t happen again.”

“Considering his quaint stance on the keeping of servants, I would guess he tries to avoid ordering you entirely.” Danarius shifts in place to free the arm under his body and slip it under Fenris, pulling him closer. He runs both hands through his slave’s hair, his expression turning calm, meditative. "There is something you need to be reminded of at times, my little wolf. He may be low born, of barbarian stock, but his promise is enough that I believe myself within my rights, elevating him to someday become a Magister of the Imperium. He is a mage, and human, and even though he is also my creature, he is your better. If his ideas are strange it is because he is from a strange land, not because he is a fool, or because you are more clever than he. I understand your frustration but it comes in part from hauteur. Abandon it, for it does not become you any more than jealousy does.“  
"And the second thing. Whatever stance he takes with you, your bitterness at seeing him with Dianna was of your own making. I chose to let the issue lie because I have had faith in your ability to rein yourself in and deal with whatever lies between you and the lad. But thus far you have been proving me wrong. Your master is disappointed, Fenris.”

Fenris flinches as though repeatedly struck by those words, ducks his head so tightly towards his collarbone that when he gulps his chin bobs minutely. “I’m sorry. I will do better, my judgement won’t become clouded again.” His words grow pathetic, quietly clinging for Danarius’ forgiveness the only way he can without doing so physically. 

“Shhhhhhhhhh,” Danarius whispers. He smooths Fenris’s hair under his palms and kisses his forehead with firm, cool lips. "So rarely you give your master any cause to chastise you. You are a good slave, Fenris – the finest. This is why I must be strict with your behavior. To do any less would serve you poorly. Do you love your master, pet?“

“/Yes/.” Fenris barely nods for fear of pulling away from his Master’s touch but his answer is quick and without hesitation, anything else only coming to his lips when he puts thought to it. “I am yours.”

"Your master loves his little pet,” Danarius replies in a smooth murmur. "Master loves his little Fenris.“ He presses dry lips to Fenris’s forehead again and lets the kiss linger, offering back some of the comfort and security his scolding had shaken. His arms slide over Fenris’s flanks to wrap around his torso in an unusually warm embrace. "Now be a good pet and no more sulking from you. I shall have you and the boy in my study this evening after supper for I wish to speak to you both. You will behave yourself impeccably, yes?”

“Yes Master.” When Fenris sighs again he’s quieter, easing into Danarius’ embrace, breath slowing and shoulders relaxing until one could mistake him for sleeping. “Do you want me to inform him personally?”

“Yes, my pet, that would be lovely.” Danarius traces along the marks on Fenris’s back and shoulders with the tips of his fingernails. His voice is a low, velvety purr. His own breathing is slow and deep as well, his expression restful.


	10. Chapter 10

When Anders pushes open the door to Danarius’s study, the magister is drawing the curtains as the setting sun grows a bit harsh through the windows. It’s the first time Anders has been into the study, and he sees the richly appointed room painted in the warm light from its large fireplace. The carpets are thick, edged with gold braid and tassels, and the bookshelves that line the walls decorated with pearl inlays and gold-brushed woodwork. By the window, about a dozen finches sleep in a large, gilded cage.  
When Danarius turns, he greets Anders with a calm smile. "Come in, my boy, and shut the door. We have much to discuss and I fear I have let much of it wait longer than it should.“

 

Fenris is there at his master’s side, half-turned with his shoulder to the door when Anders comes in. The elf looks up before he thinks, instincts guarding before anything else, before he can hide his emotions that had been private to that room. For that split moment is a wash of too much quietly tearing at him, a solemn frustration narrowing his eyes and setting a passive frown in place at his lips. Any subtleties are lost as he hides it, relaxing to a neutral but far colder expression, eyes flicking from Anders back to Danarius once the man is noted to be who Fenris expects him to be.

Danarius moves over to the couch in front of the fire. He raises a hand and beckons to Anders with long, gnarled fingers and the apprentice finds himself smiling. He feels ease and calm settle over him like a soft blanket placed around his shoulders, and at first he thinks it must simply be the cozy aura of the room but then he stops, looking at Danarius with a confused, abstracted expression.  
”/Let it be/, my dove.“ Even though he does not raise his voice, there’s a firm command carried in Danarius’s words.  
"But, this magic–”  
“I know what I am about. For long enough I’ve waited for you to let go of these fears you carry with you. I have given you time and understanding, but now what I give you is the chance to see plainly, clearly, that you need not fear me. Succumb to it. You are in the palm of my hand either way, Anders, but only if you surrender will you know what that truly means. Have I given you any reason not to trust me?”  
Anders eyes clear as he shakes his head, his response too immediate. The response Danarius knew his words would bring, whether sincere or simply polite, but it is enough for his power when Anders lets his mind frame that thought. "No, Master, of course not. Of course I trust you.“ Finding its foothold there, his power enshrouds Anders’ mind again, and all his trepidations, all his doubts are muffled in soft layers of wool. When Danarius sits down at the center of the couch, Anders seats himself at his right side.

When Anders settles past the initial small struggle Fenris shoots a small look to Danarius from the corner of his eye, but his vague alarm goes unnoticed, a step behind an out of view. As Danarius sits he stays put at the edge of the couch’s arm, sword still on his back and not being set to the tiny notch in the floor. Ready. Wary would imply too much distrust, and he doesn’t distrust his master, but this was clearly unexpected and not what he imagined a ‘talk’ would entail. It was more like his experiments than what a conversation with an eventual peer would allow.   
But then, Anders wasn’t like anyone else in Tevinter and this would not end in social outrage. So Fenris sighs through his nose, and reaches back to the sword at his back so he can take up his place at the corner of the couch.

Anders looks back and up at Fenris, but he doesn’t seem to notice his stance. He sees that flinty look in his eyes, that distance, but he looks almost mystified by it for a moment.  
"The matter at hand, my dove.” Danarius calls Anders’ attention back to him. “You have been causing my dear pet quite a lot of distress. What do you have to say for yourself?”  
Anders’s brown eyes widen. “I– I didn’t know! Master, I–”  
“Do not claim ignorance, lad. You knew, even though I believe you never intended any harm.”  
Anders lowers his chin, staring at his own clasped hands. “Yes, Master, as you say.” His tone is soft, but more sad than guilty.  
“My little Fenris came to my bed this morning far more miserable than he will ever admit to, shaken as I’ve rarely seen him. He said little of how or why, but this was your doing.” Danarius’s voice has found its edge again, even though he does not raise it in the slightest. He frowns, eyebrows drawn downward in stern disapproval. “It pains me terribly,” he adds, “to see my pet so. That he shied away contact for the better part of a week over you I was prepared to consider his own poor judgment. But this? He does not harbor wounded feelings over nothing, he is a tender-hearted thing but not so soft as that.”  
Anders lowers his chin further, cheeks burning crimson as though every word of Danarius’s rebuke were a slap in the face. He does not speak.  
“I want an explanation from you, Anders. What has happened? What have you done?”

That morning, the morning mentioned that makes Fenris flush and look down to the rug at his feet, Danarius had mentioned he would talk to them to sort this out, and the slave had expected something more akin to Anders’ manner. More all those pieces of his personality that felt alien and grated on Fenris’ mind. More how he prided on keeping his mind level and no more biased than a sword, but Anders would always pick at his flaws and act like they were something interesting.  
And not only had they been thoroughly picked at, the emotions flowering and torn from the small place in his armor, but his master had taken notice, and such candidly personal words about him makes Fenris duck his head, in an odd mirror of the apprentice. He wants to speak up, terribly, anything to derail this, but the best he manages is an indignant huff at being called tender.

That little huff threatens to make Danarius smile in spite of himself. Thankfully he has years of experience as a senator to call upon, and his expression is unwavering as he stares down the apprentice. “Raise your head, lad. Look me in the eyes when you speak.” His tone is softer, patient, though still commanding.  
Anders does as bidden. “I… scarcely know where to begin.” He speaks haltingly, his voice quiet. “I made love to him last night,” he says. And at that, he can no longer meet Danarius’s gaze even though commanded to. “We were together in his bed and… it was everything I have ever wanted and more. We held eachother, we drank eachother’s breath, and when I came inside him he kissed me and swallowed my cries and I thought…” Anders shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t think. My mind was quiet for a change. And then, in the morning, he looked at me like he didn’t even remember who I was, why I was in bed with him.”  
Danarius places a hand on Anders’ shoulder. “But there is more, isn’t there.” As if his touch is a command in itself, Anders sinks down, laying with his body half-curled on the couch and his head resting on Danarius’s knee. The magister’s long, gnarled fingers card through Anders’ hair.  
“I’ve been used before… more than once. And for a moment I thought that was what had happened. But then he reminded me, I came to -his- bed, and I wondered… did I force myself on him? That I didn’t know what existed between us, or what -could- exist, when one of us is a slave, and when I’ve only known him a handful of weeks. I… I don’t want to put a name to this feeling. It’s too strong for me and I’m too much of a fool.”  
Danarius shakes his head, still dragging his fingers through Anders’s ash blonde hair. “My poor dove. You did act the fool, I’m sorry to say. You cannot -force- yourself on Fenris. Nothing less than blood magic would be needed for you to coerce him into carnal acts with you, and if you attempted that within my home I would immediately know, and I would put a stop to it. It is true he is a slave, but this does not mean he has no will. When he shows you that will, why do you insist on disregarding it? If he ever lets his own desires be subsumed for your sake… that is his -role-, dove. A role he accepts and even finds comfort in.”

As much comfort as one can take in hearing their entire being and the deeply personal things within discussed as if he weren’t there. Places left so untouched because they didn’t have to be, Fenris’ hard shelled exterior building over the years, tightening and compact like ice, but in the process everything inside becoming soft and sensitive to the faintest breezes. Not frail, but oversensitive, and Fenris is unsure of whether it’s the apprentice’s words or his master’s that makes him more embarrassed, and wishing he weren’t here. But he is, and he knows what Danarius intends, now, that he would hear these things that his master would coax out of the man, and for that he does listen, and lets them sink in. Even as he watches Anders sink to Danarius’ side, and spark with horrible jealousy. It sets his jaw, levels his glare that casts away to nothing in particular to control himself, and do as intended.  
He hadn’t even realized Anders had placed that night in such high regard. Rather, a part of him had already wondered if he would simply be used passionately and set aside as another Dianna.

“Fenris, my pet, cease your fuming and /come here./ There is room enough for you.” Danarius pats the empty space on the couch to his other side.  
Anders lifts his head as Danarius commands his bodyguard, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. Before he rests it on Danarius’s lap again, the look he gives Fenris is vulnerable but welcoming.  
“Now, Anders. What is it that you wish there to be, between yourself and my little Fenris?”  
“I…” Anders hesitates, but Danarius smooths back his hair, whispers a gentle shhhh and it soothes away the knot in his feelings. “I want everything. I want a companion to my soul and I want to give him as much as I ask for from him. I want to please him and find ways to make him smile and crack his reserve and know his thoughts and his heart. I want to care for him and I want to grant his wishes and spoil him completely rotten.”  
Danarius can’t help but grin at that last. “Tsk, dove, spoiling him is my job. But I suppose I may let you assist. You are so driven to give and yet you seem to fear to receive. How then is Fenris to show he cares for you, if you would negate those things his role allows him? You mean well, but you are impatient and you cast my poor pet into confusion and frustration. You need to have faith, dove. Faith in Fenris, faith in yourself, and faith in me. For now I am helping you find that faith with my magic. But you must take what you learn tonight, and remember how to find it on your own.”

Fenris for his part does as told. It starts as a simple turn of his head, hesitant to be more directly a part of this when being an extended section of the couch overwhelmed him enough. But he shifts his weight, hands setting at his sides as they lean into the cushion and rock his body closer to Danarius’ hip. Instead of curling to his master’s lap he leans and sinks against the man’s shoulder, his own low as he buries his forehead to those warm robes. For a moment he debates nuzzling and hiding there, just ignore the fact Anders is right there, take his words more as delivered by a messenger. Despite the small shot at his mood it doesn’t abate at close range, the idea fizzling as he simply can’t forget that Anders is taking up his usual place, but as he frees one brow to look down Anders’ eyes make him stop, all petty and territorial feelings within him freezing to the spot. His brow knits in faint confusion to the confession, a pure incomprehension without aversion, and this time he forgets to hide it away.

Danarius puts his arm around Fenris when the bodyguard curls up against this side. He greets him with a kiss on the brow and he settles with his fingers curled into Fenris’s hair. “My little Fenris,” he sighs in a voice laced with tenderness. “After the experiment was done… my little wolf knew only two things. The pain, and the will to cling to life in spite of it. Healing him was the work of many days and nights. In the beginning what I did I did for my research. But very soon… I simply did not want to see someone who tried so hard, to fail.”  
It isn’t clear for whose benefit Danarius tells this story, but Anders listens, closing his eyes, feeling the light in the room only as the warmth of the fire on his face.  
“And soon he knew me. My face, my voice, my magic. He would raise his head to me when he had the strength and his eyes would fix on me, and it is not that he was… happy, exactly, to see me. But to him, I was All. And he was defenseless. Like one of my birds, I held him in the palm of my hand. And I would no more harm him thus than I would harm one of them… or you, my dove.”  
Danarius leans his jaw against Fenris’s hair then, and his sigh ruffles through it. “In the hours I spent with him I saw how hard and cold my world had become. All was sterile civility, a blank mask to hide the flayed bleeding face of senate intrigue. I had the respect of my peers and the fear and despite of my inferiors, but there is very little trust to go around, between any one Magister of Tevinter and another. But Fenris could never harm me or betray me. With him I can afford to be kind, to be generous. He belongs to me in ways no one else ever shall. He is my precious pet, who can never be replaced.”  
“And now there is you, lad. Not so utterly vulnerable, but at least as frightened. You will not be mine in the way Fenris is, but you are mine nonetheless. In the palm of my hand. Do not fear to be thus, dove. It is the only place where I am free to show mercy. And even if to you I am not All, there is… satisfaction… when I see you stand among my peers, dangerous as a tiger though they know it not. To see you thus and to know you shall be tamed to my hand alone.”

The story is not one Fenris was wholly unfamiliar with, having lived half of it, but when Danarius retells it and Anders’ eyes close he sighs contently, gratefully. With another small turn he turns his head upwards as he catches Danarius’ hand in his, and gently pulls it down by the wrist to kiss the man’s fingertips, the thin creases under his knuckles, the pads of his hand and the dip of his palm. The words are true and he does feel made, rather than born with the potential of who buys him or free altogether, not entirely amongst the other slaves and certainly far from the magisters but somewhere hazily between.  
He only stops when he painfully remembers Anders’ presence, unaccustomed to the intrusion to the usually private room, and he stops only to sigh against Danarius’ skin.

Danarius caresses Fenris with that hand he kisses, and his gaze is filled with tenderness. “Now what say you, my little love?” He murmurs the question to Fenris, Anders slaying still and silent with his head under Danarius’s other hand. There’s a ripple under the smoothness of the magister’s voice, an uncommon show of feeling. “Have I brought your troubled heart any peace?”

Fenris pauses, a mixed freeze from Danarius’ affectionate words and the question behind them. After the initial surprise he flinches, then rises to sit up, movement careful as if he might raise someone’s temper from moving though he doesn’t honestly expect it. “I…” His words trail off lamely and his eyes fall to look at Anders, then glance away, clearly torn. “…I think so. I understand his reasons, but I need to think about it.” His shoulders slump with those final words, some small failure that he can’t come to some sort of conclusion about it all this moment. He isn’t even sure what that conclusion is supposed to be.

Danarius inclines his head in a single, slow nod. He curls his fingers towards his palm and brushes his knuckles along Fenris’s cheek and jaw, transfixed on him. “Anders, you may go now.”  
The apprentice is still for a moment before he raises his head. He slips from the couch and with his gaze on the floor, gives a brief bow before he turns and leaves. If he’s unhappy with Fenris’s words, he gives no real clue. He shuts the door softly behind him, leaving the Master alone with his slave.  
“I want you in my bed tonight, pet.”

Fenris plants his eyes solidly towards the floor, not looking up as Anders gets up to leave. As much as he wants to blurt out that he feels something, that something is more akin to an odd fascination than anything like what he thinks about his master, and he feels that any explanation of that would deepen this hole he’s found himself in. His shoulders faintly wince as the door shuts… only to look up at Danarius’ words that follow. If he was surprised before it was guarded, his eyebrows raising. “Because of what I said?”

“No, pet. Because you are who you are, and I have just spent many minutes dwelling on how precious you are to me.” Danarius’s eyes crinkle at the corners with tender amusement. “I do not believe I require any exceptional reason to want you in bed with me. The usual ones do suffice.”


	11. Chapter 11

The rich, heavy red and gold tasseled fabric of the curtains remain still though a small breeze brushes past them, accompanied by beams of light that highlight the edges in a blinding glow. But that light doesn’t reach the bed, a wide piece equally plush and thick down quilted blankets rounding the edges of the mattress. Deeply ensconced within is Fenris, or rather a lump in the bed dwarfed by the grandiose luxury of the room, head so buried against a pillow only a mess of white hair shows while the rest of the pillow fluffs around him, practically threatening suffocation from how much he’s sunken against it.  
So understandably between the comfort of the bed and the light that doesn’t hit his eyelids Fenris sleeps in. It’s late morning when he finally rises, the sun no longer glaring across the windows through the room, warmth of another body at his side, and when he groggily pushes his palms down to try to sit up he leaves his eyes closed, scrunching them as he stretches.

Beside him, Carnality enjoys the view. The demon is lounging on top of the covers, chin propped up on one hand and ankles crossed in a way that make his legs look especially long and lithe. His slender, segmented tail twitches behind him like a contented housecat’s would. “Good morning, little wolf,” he says, his echoing voice bordering on androgyny. “But only barely.”

The locked elbows holding Fenris up crumple at the voice that is distinctly not his master’s, and he ventures a tiny glare shot in the demon’s direction for simply existing there before he straightens and sits up with some attempt at composure. The blankets settle in ripples around his waist, half pulled from where Carnality is laying upon them. “Did you want something?”

“I am a spirit of Desire. What do you suppose the answer to that is?” Carnality rolls onto his belly and, planting his hands against the mattress, lifts his shoulders and then immediately brings his knees up into a froglike crouch. From there, he slithers under the blankets, the claws on his toes snagging at the weave of the sheets. “You are so very much a hot mess in recent days. I like it.” Carnality eases closer to Fenris, entangling his limbs with the slave’s.

For a brief moment Fenris remains stiff, not uneasy but more holding out with a determined grump before he grumbles. His shoulders relax and sink, followed with his back and the rest of his body until he just crashes backwards into the bed completely, and settles wherever the demon wants to be the way one would entertain where a cat wants to be. A warmth that can be wherever it pleases, but that place is likely to be somewhere on top of you. “At least someone seems to be enjoying it.”

Carnality crawls over Fenris, eventually coming to rest with both his hands folded over one another on Fenris’s chest, and his fine chin resting upon them. “Psht. So are you, at times. Seeing the apprentice’s heart wrung out like yesterday’s wash, all over you. I know it appealed to your vanity. So does your Master. How I should have loved to be a fly on the wall in that room… all the unfulfilled cravings wafting through the air…”

Fenris closes his eyes with a heavy sigh, the mere mention of Anders making him wish he hadn’t acted so stupidly that morning, even if he still has no idea what he wants. Making him wish that comfortable weight on him was someone else, before he silences his mind. Little wonder that the Carnality was clinging to him like some hummingbird to sugar. But it leaves him wondering, and he cracks his eyes open again. “Have you been clutching to him too then?”

Carnality laughs musically at that idea. “No. He is a banquet, but he’s a sweet southern boy. He fears my kind. Danarius has bade us to be careful with him.” Carnality sighs, the far-off look in his eyes making clear that he’s thinking about it, though. “He has been blandly calm today, in any case. You, on the other hand, were having such interesting dreams… perhaps I can make some of them come true for you?”

The proposition is flatly ignored with no outright refusal, and it’s not what makes Fenris’ eyes snap back open. “Calm? Why?” The way the man had left the study last night, assuming the blank and dead movements weren’t part of Danarius’ magic, the elf had imagined the worst. As if he’d said no. Perhaps this was worse than some definitive answer either way, but before his mind settles on guilt he glances up, faintly hopeful the demon will oblige more than that.

“Danarius untangled some of the knots inside him and put things back in better order, last night.” Carnality tilts his head, eyes fixing on Fenris’s face again as he senses that stab of unease in the other. “At least, he is not flagellating himself for being a source of misery to you. That was how he spent yesterday.” Carnality rolls his eyes, obviously finding guilt to be a horribly tedious emotion. While he speaks, his tail moves under the blankets, its delicate tip creeping up Fenris’s inner thigh. “That was a gift. Anything more of the pretty dove, you must bargain for.”

Fenris does consider his options, though perhaps for too fleeting a moment. His legs shift with the gentle tickle trailing upwards, pulling away at first before settling, a hair farther apart than they had been a moment ago, but his eyes remain sharp and somewhat skeptical. “How do I know you have anything more of worth to tell?”

“When have I ever disappointed you?” The tip of Carnality’s tail flicks at the soft skin behind Fenris’s balls, and the demon smiles with lidded eyes. “Pose a question, and I will tell you if I have the answer.” He draws idle swirls on Fenris’s chest with the tips of his claws.

“Why did he choose Dianna if he is so infatuated by me?” The question that rolls off of Fenris’ tongue without the slightest hesitation isn’t the one he expected to ask. He’d intended to put thought behind his words, make them worth whatever effort Carnality decided to put him through, but once the question has been posed he doesn’t make any excuse to escape it.

Carnality smiles, the expression a bit sinister by reason of the unmoving horns that ridge his brow. “Ah, a good choice. You’ll both love and hate the answer to that.” The demon touches his sensual lips to Fenris’s chin. “My fee, for that…” He slides off of Fenris, a gliding touch of impossibly silken skin stretched over strong, supple muscle. “…is for you to impale yourself on my dick.”

The demand is met with a small sigh as Fenris pushes himself to one side, the lazy morning tones laced with exasperation. Carnality was always predictable, though in it’s own right that made him safer as far as the elf cared. He draws upright, slowly, and regards the demon like he’s still debating the offer, eyes narrowed so slightly. "The least you could do is put some effort to what you want.“

"But then -I- would be paying -you-. And I do quite a bit of that already.” Carnality smiles insolently and folds his hands under his head. “I can’t simply give you everything you want, no matter how taken I am with your charms. You wouldn’t appreciate its val–” Carnality sees the look on Fenris’s face and sighs. “…Fine, get on your hands and knees, I’ll show you some of this effort you crave.”

For a moment Fenris doesn’t do anything, still debating, but when he finally makes up his mind he doesn’t obediently fall into position. Instead he leans in, hand drawing out to pin Carnality’s shoulder as he presses their lips together, slow and forceful and parting to let the demon have as much as he wants. When he stops, more weight sinking to his hand as he rises those few inches, his eyes glance down to nothing in particular and this was what he was actually debating all along, and his brows knit to put it to words. “I rather had one of your other ‘talents’ in mind.”

Carnality murmurs into the kiss and drinks it in eagerly. His eyes close at the indulgence and his arms wrap around Fenris, clawed hands resting below his shoulderblades. “Very well,” he says, the pitch of his voice changing to a familiar gentle tenor. His body shifts, growing taller, bulking just slightly more, and his skin becomes peachy and fair in a flush that starts low on his belly and blooms outward. “Does this please you?” Carnality kneels on the bed, gazing at Fenris from behind Anders’s face, one slim hand gliding down his own belly to stroke his stirring cock. He knows the answer, of course.

Fenris doesn’t bother to respond anyway, doesn’t have to for the same reason that Carnality knew exactly who he meant. When he leans in for another kiss his mouth his just as inviting, opening easily, but less firm and headstrong about his movements, more interested in the pad of their meeting lips, pillowed together between their teeth. His hips shift readily, parting to straddle and settle his thighs at Anders’ hips, lifting with a small arch that presses his own growing erection to the demon’s stomach as he reaches back to position the fat tip to his ass. With a part of their kiss he sinks down carefully, and while he gasps sharply as the head presses against him then past the demon’s cock always feels perfect, already oiled but with just enough drag to feel Anders’ skin pull and glide past that tight rim.

“/Fenris…/” Carnality moans with Anders’ voice, and graceful hands grasp the crest of Fenris’s hips and push him down. The illusion is complete in every detail, the way his pupils dilate as he looks up into Fenris’s face, the way his lips grow plump and rosy and the way his blush spreads to his neck and chest. "He did it because he thought you told him to. When you told him the other slaves would talk to him, be with him if he wished, he took that to be a suggestion.“   
Carnality can’t help but smile at the irony of that, but after a moment of smugness that expression softens to something wry and apologetic, a look that would be at home on Anders’ face. "And he thought… she would be good practice. If he could be with her and have it be reciprocal enough to satisfy his odd taboos, then he could try it later with you and not risk doing you any wrong. It never occurred to him, after you criticized him for being reluctant to couple with Danarius’s slaves, that you would be jealous when he did.”

It doesn’t matter whether the demon’s words or the press of the bony flesh of his hips to the elf’s stretched ass starts it. Fenris cries out a quiet moan, eyes wincing shut as his head drops to Carnality’s shoulder, and the sound is a perfectly exquisite agony, filled with notes of despair and need. His voice falters as he picks his hips up only to force them back into place, and bites his bottom lip sharply to cut himself silent as the demon’s, Anders’, cock nudges firmly against something deep inside him that makes his own erection twitch and strain. He rocks his ass with small thrusts as he uses the demon to pleasure himself, and croaks out a small, “Change back so I can look at you.”

A ripple of light and Carnality sheds the illusion, taking on his usual guise. His arms wrap around Fenris’s shoulders, pulling him down, bending him close while he bucks his hips rhythmically beneath him. Frustration may be sweet to the demon, but loss is bitter, troubling, and Fenris’s pain smacks of it. With his hands running a smooth course down Fenris’s back, he whispers, “Why do you tarry here with me when you could make him yours? Poor hungry thing, you are…”

Fenris lets his mouth fall back open to a lustful sigh, laced with the frustration of working out his thoughts regarding that damned apprentice and the fact that he’d much rather forget about the lot of it and just fuck like usual. His eyes crack and then open only when he sees the familiar tones to Carnality’s skin, and when another moan escapes his throat like so much built up steam it’s simply pleasure once more. “It’s not my place to go to him whether he cares for rules or not. I…” His words crack to a halt as he lifts himself up until the flare at Carnality’s cockhead pulls at his tight ass, then sinks back down with a shudder, “…I don’t even know what I want from him.”

“I do,” Carnality whispers. "Everything.“ The demon’s next breath comes out a sigh of delight, his body rocking its counterpoint to the rise and fall of Fenris’s hips. Every stroke into Fenris’s ass is long and deep and tight, and every tug wrings a heavy rush of precum from him, keeping their joining slick and smooth. His hand skims across Fenris’s flank and down along the crease of his thigh to take hold of the neglected shaft that bobs over his belly. 

“But I don’t.. I can’t have that, can I.” Fenris’ last words are barely past his lips when he cuts himself off again, his rocking hips arching with small thrusts forward, and this time he doesn’t bother to try collecting his breath again. Instead he drapes his arms to Carnality’s shoulders, wrists crossed and fingers spread over the demon’s shoulderblades to cling to him. His chin tips to bring their mouths back together but his movements are less lustful and more pleading for his release; tiny, sucking kisses lining the demon’s bottom lip, his cock tight and throbbing within the firm grip, claws lightly drawing along the shaft from their jerking movements.

Carnality says nothing, choosing to answer the pleas of Fenris’s body instead. His clawed fingers drag at Fenris’s shaft, pricking and teasing at the spot where the loose skin gathers below the head. The tip of one claw slips upward from there to tease Fenris’s slit open, that sharp touch threatening to penetrate. He staggers the rhythm of his hips, rolling against that firm, swollen spot in Fenris and then battering it with a flurry of short, sharp thrusts.

While Fenris makes most of his whispering whimpers while Carnality thoroughly fucks him, the whines mingling with the quiet slaps of the elf’s ass and the dripping precum welling up to pool at the spread slit, it’s the quieter, slower grinding that does him. Fenris’ stomach and balls tighten together, the muscles piled along his stomach going rigid and defined, and with a small choke of a gasp he releases, the slit of his cock spasming and spilling his cum onto Carnality’s fingers.

Carnality gives Fenris’s length a few parting strokes, his palm wet with warm jism and his touch like satin on sensitized skin. Then, as Fenris gasps for air, he rolls him onto his back. His thick cock pulls free for a moment, leaving Fenris’s ass with nothing to spasm around until he brings his hips down on him again, shoving in deep and smooth. His thrusts are long and deep again, his moans soft and sudden and rising in a sweet crescendo. Finally he follows, his lip curling above one pearlescent fang, pouring himself into Fenris in almost impossible torrents.

If nothing else Carnality is certainly /distracting/, and for one entire moment of a rare few in the past weeks Fenris isn’t thinking about Anders, jaw loose and eyebrows raised and entirely /had/ and only when the demon begins to come down from their time together he breathes a deep sigh of relief. His shoulders haven’t been so loose since he stepped out of a carriage into the mud, just before seeing a man tied and drugged in a pile he considered pathetic. "I understand this is a somewhat belated question,” Fenris sighs again, this time to begin catching his breath, finally aware of how much he’s panting, “-but what could my master possibly be doing that doesn’t involve either of us or this bed?”

Carnality finally slackens and sinks down beside Fenris, long limbs tangled up with his. He echoes that sigh of satisfaction, though his eyes never drift completely shut. “He is in the library, doing something tedious and obscure. He told us he expects to continue that drudgery into the evening. I have no cause to complain, though, while I have such a playmate.” Carnality kisses Fenris on the cheek then. “I have a question for -you- now, hungry little wolf.”

Fenris doesn’t immediately answer, too busy trying to catch air into his lungs to humor the demon, wondering if Carnality is actually as exhausted as he is or if it’s an elaborate ruse to make a partner feel less inadequate. If he’s also covered in a thin sheen of sweat at the brow and too hot where skin touches the mattress to make that space between the shoulderblades a bit itchy but not enough to move about it, hair lightly plastered down, and if it’s all real. Real like it is for Fenris. If that kiss is some faint hint of affection or gratitude for the meal. He decides he doesn’t want to know, eyes fixed to the ceiling. “What could I possibly know that you don’t already?”

“Why do you think you can’t have what you desire?” Whatever the reason, Carnality clearly enjoys close contact, and his lazy cuddle with Fenris gradually turns into a snug embrace, limbs tightening around limbs like the coils of a constricting snake until their skin touches in more places than either can count. “As sweet as your frustration is, it’s edging upon anguish. I see no need for this.” With the horns that dominate his brow, it’s difficult for Carnality to express perplexity. Perhaps just as difficult as it is to express concern. 

“Evidently.” Fenris’ voice isn’t irritated but more matter of fact, and for all that he doesn’t make any immediate moves to return the gestures he drops his head to one side, leans his forehead to Carnality’s cheekbone with a slow exhale. “The best I can ever do is to be there for them and their will. But I can never /have/ them. Either of them.”

Carnality lets a breath of air puff past his lips, an expression of pure incredulity. “According to the law of the land perhaps. But laws are just made-up rules for the games you mortals play, they have nothing to do with what is and what isn’t. If they crave you enough they become yours. Whether or not they know it or believe it, that is another thing entirely. ” Carnality cups one hand tenderly against the back of Fenris’s neck. “Don’t despair, sweet thing. The play is joyless when you suffer.”

Fenris doesn’t move, or if anything he sinks to Carnality’s touch, lungs finally slowing to something docile. “I was wondering if after all this time, that you still didn’t understand why mortals did things. Now I know you’re only leading me so I taste better to you.”

“I do try to cultivate your flavor,” Carnality purrs in Fenris’s ear. “But why say that is the -only- reason I come to be with you this way? Instead of deciding I like the flavor of your fulfillment, I could have chosen to cultivate a taste for denial and anguish. Others have. You cut away what you don’t understand and leave stark simplicity behind, all because you would rather believe that -I- use -you- than the other way around. I do use you, of course. And I tease you and I toy with you. But have I ever left you desolate?”

Fenris turns on his side then, a bit closer to Carnality’s embrace as he closes his eyes. He could certainly worry about the mess they’ve made making an equal ruin of his master’s bed, but demons were good for even the small details. Or perhaps only this one. “I imagine you don’t leave anyone desolate. Why, then? Why do you bother?”

“I…” Carnality’s voice turns soft, sober. “..I don’t know. I want to. And that is enough.”

Fenris pauses, at that. “Has Danarius ever mentioned that you’re strange?”

“Of course not, little wolf, your master has manners.”


	12. Chapter 12

The largest bookstore in the acropolis of Minrathous is located off a plaza that Anders has begun to recognize as the “main drag.” Some of the other notable shops include a couple of fine jewelers, a bladesmith, a vintner’s tasting room, and a couturier’s showroom. The plaza is open enough that a number of smaller merchants have kiosks as well, and there are frequently dancers and musicians near the central fountain.  
Yet all the color and life going on outside is forgotten once Anders steps inside the bookstore. Everything in his world is suddenly comprised of gold-stamped leather spines and fine vellum pages. He rubbernecks even as he tries to subdue the inclination to gawk. It’s difficult to decide where to start. Every subject seems interesting, every volume full of potential.

After cleaning himself up from the morning, though this consisted more of smoothing out his mind more than anything else once the demon was done with him, Fenris had made a late but honest attempt to be of some use today while Danarius scrawled notes in the library. His offer had only ended with his master delightfully suggesting he take the apprentice to the bookstore, where selling books on magic out in the open would be quite the novel experience. Might be good to let the lad have something of his own, he’d said.  
This wasn’t exactly what Fenris had in mind by ‘useful’. Fenris had tried stubbornly not to seem sheepish when he first walked into the apprentice’s study, Carnality’s impression of the man still fresh on his mind, and in the end he’d just come off a bit cold. He could only hope Anders didn’t notice, since agitation seemed par for the course for the elf lately.  
Still, this wasn’t wholly unwelcome. Once the initial awkward suggestion that they go to the bookstore, now that they were here meant that Anders couldn’t, or rather hopefully wouldn’t, speak to him too personally, and Fenris could spend some thankful time comfortably settling back into his routines.  
Which is what he was doing now, silent at the man’s side, and noticing some pointed looks from a gossiping group of nearby apprentices. For the most part nothing to pay any mind to, save that he recognized a couple of them to be friends of Hadriana’s.

Anders hasn’t asked whose idea the bookstore outing was. And while Fenris has been stoic and distant, he’s offered a few conciliatory smiles and otherwise let things pass. It’s a good gesture, wherever it originated, and even if Fenris is being taciturn it feels good, somehow, to have him close by. It’s at least an indication that Fenris isn’t back to avoiding him.  
While Anders notices the cold stares from across the room, he doesn’t acknowledge them; a habit from the Circle. He breezes by them with a whispering swish of dark robes and pulls down a volume on the history of the cult of Dumat up to the aftermath of the first Blight.

Fenris remains silent as to who they are. And no reason for it; the information is more something Danarius might take interest in than the apprentice, for some later backhanded casual comment the next time the senate comes together. That, and inaction means Fenris can continue to simply glare like a hawk at Anders’ shoulder.  
Not that he expects them to do more than watch. Only when Anders makes his purchases and they turn to leave, only when one of the group breaks off from the others to follow them out, does he really notice the way he was made to. The way he notices that they’re tailed, the other young man at least having the common decency to sink back to a distance, but half a block down and around a corner to a quieter street and it’s harder to hide, and when he finally shouts a blunt “Hey!” Fenris stops and half-turns to finally look back, any intensity at the library gone and replaced by something cooler, more calculating.

Anders turns. He keeps the motion slow and nonchalant, just to drive home the point that he’s not surprised in the least. “Did you want something?” Anders smirks and tilts his head, his tone caustic and coquettish both at once. “I felt you eying me up back at the bookshop and I was -so- hoping you’d do more than look.”  
The young man scoffs disdainfully. “Is this what passes for wit in Teraevyn? If you’re what passes for an apprentice there, I suppose it stands to reason. But when it comes to seeing some piece of dung like you strutting around Minrathous like he owns the place? You can bet I’ll do /more than look./” The apprentice begins to raise his hands, weaving a pattern in the air with his fingertips and murmuring the beginnings of a curse, only for Anders to lunge in, knock his hands aside, and punch him across the jaw.  
“You kiss your mother with that mouth? /For shame!/”

The young man stumbles backwards and just barely saves himself from toppling over. A hand clutches to his cheek as he looks up in utter shock, like nobody’s ever done anything of the sort before, and probably haven’t. Tevinter isn’t full of barbarians, after all.  
He jerks his arm down with a start, fist clenched at his side to keep it from bolting back up. “And is that what passes for civility there!? Everyone in the entire city will know just what kind of person that old coot took on!” His hands raise again as he steps back this time, as if a few more steps away will keep Anders at bay.  
And Fenris simply stands aside, fights desperately not to crack a smile in amusement, a small quirk at the edge of his lips betraying him anyway.

“Someone who knows the Qunari don’t hold by the Minrathous Handbook for Mannerly Mages? What are you, an idiot? Have you ever been in a fight before? That was some kind of Entropic hex, even if you’d hit me with that you’d have to follow up with something quick if you even wanted to wind me.” As the apprentice begins to chant again, Anders stands and looks disgusted. He waits while the younger man incants, makes a few mental notes, and then, just as the apprentice’s magic begins to coalesce, he sweeps forward with his staff. A fist of solid rock condenses out of thin air and hits the apprentice in the gut, knocking him into one of the alleyway walls.  
“You can’t -do- that!” The young man sucks in a wheezing breath.  
“What, I used a spell this time, now you’re just being a princess.”  
“I’ve studied battle magic since I was ten years old! I know spells that can turn the tide of a–”  
“This is a brawl, not a battle, you idiot. You don’t have archers and cavalry covering your pansy ass. Now if you were trying to menace me, I think this is where I point out you’re failing hard.”

“Alright then, /fine/!” The other apprentice shoves his chin up in his personal show of trying not to look to hurt, but instead of trying some other spell, or maker forbid actually try throwing a punch of his own for once, he reaches back into a pocket neatly lined on his coat. “You want to play dirty do you? Then let’s make this interesting, shall we?” His words are high and disheveled as it is, likely quoted from his master to make him seem as authoritative as his expensive clothes entitle him to be. The apprentice rushes forward, that one hand still pulled back, the other not blocking for any punches Anders might aim at him, an altogether easy target and a flash of a large blade as his hand sweeps forward in an arc-  
One halted by Fenris as he steps between the two. So invisible moments ago and now lighting the white stone in broad daylight around them as his markings flash. The strike of his hand to the man’s grip is heavy enough that the weapon clangs to the ground and the impact of his fist to the apprentice’s neck chokes him for than the tight grip that follows, the glow coalescing towards his hand. And he stops, there, so still, the apprentice scrambling and whimpering in vain in his grip, as he neither kills the man nor lets him go. Waiting.

Anders stands there, dazed. He was braced to try and wrestle the blade out of the apprentice’s hands, and then there was light. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening or how. After taking a moment to look Fenris over from head to toe with renewed astonishment, he looks up at the apprentice’s terrified, sweating face. "Hold him a moment, Fenris,“ Anders says with a calm confidence he scarcely feels. "Listen up. I don’t know your name and I’m sure I don’t care, but for all your whinging about civility, you should know not to speak ill of your betters. Danarius is a Magister of Tevinter, an honor that, if there’s any justice in this world, you’ll never possess. You don’t even have the privilege of calling him Master, let alone an old coot. And if you really think you can cause a scandal over this, I’ll happily assist in telling all of Minrathous how I didn’t even need magic to get first blood in that 'duel’. Now get out of my sight and stay that way.”

Fenris lets the apprentice squirm for a few moments longer before he finally releases his grip, hand going dark and no longer veritably buzzing with power with a light shove. The young man stumbles back and does fall this time right to his ass, scrambles backward and back up. He pauses before he takes flight, absently practically diving to the knife to retrieve it, but freezes as Fenris pointedly steps on the blade with a glare. Finally he turns and flees, surely to tell the others of the horrible things that befell him. Fenris huffs as he kicks aside the blade into the gutter, and turns back to Anders to simply continue on their way as if nothing happened.

Anders watches the fleeing apprentice until he rounds a corner and disappears from view. Once he’s reasonably certain no one’s around to see, he takes hold of Fenris by the front of his armor and hauls him close, kissing him so hard he can feel his own lips smarting against his teeth.

Fenris makes a sort of muffled 'mmph!’ off surprise, the only thing he can do, taken too completely off guard to do anything more than catch Anders’ shoulders in his hands though he doesn’t push away. Slowly, carefully the elf’s shoulders relax, followed by his arms, one dropping while one clings to the apprentice’s sleeve, barely. When they part he feels like he hardly had time to return anything, too stunned to realize what was going on until far too late, left desperately wanting, but when he can see Anders more than the details of his skin Fenris shoves it all aside, and just looks horribly, horribly confused. “Why…?”

“You are /amazing./” Anders looks Fenris in the eyes, no flattery in his tone. When he glances away, he sees his hands, unclenched now and resting over Fenris’s heart, and it finally occurs to him to feel a bit awkward over the impulse he just followed. Color rises in his cheeks, but only faintly. Even if it was impulsive, he wouldn’t take back that kiss. 

“I…” Fenris lets go of Anders’ sleeve, takes a small step back, not looking horribly opposed or awkward towards what just happened but more dreadfully aware of where they are and while the fight might cause an amusing stir, the assumptions from this would be less so. “…thank you, ser.” The elf pauses again and this time he is awkward, self conscious for a moment, before he hides it, or attempts to. “Shall we go?”

“Er, yes. Let’s.” For a moment Anders wears a laughing smile, a hand to the back of his neck. The wavering leaves on the crown of his staff glimmer in the evening light as Anders turns back toward the way home and falls into step beside Fenris.


	13. Chapter 13

Either Fenris never mentions the scuffle to Danarius or their master never brings it up to Anders. Regardless, not a word of it is uttered afterward and the remainder of the day is for the most part uneventful. Danarius works well into the evening, dinner brought to him, and the most anyone can tell Anders is that the man gets too focused when he intends to work on something difficult within the next week or so.  
The next day is an equally quiet affair, Anders left to his own devices in his study. Besides Dianna, the mansion almost seems unoccupied, until she stops by the door well before his cup of tea is empty. “Ser, Master Danarius requests your presence in the apprentice workroom.”

 

“Of course, thank you Dianna.” Anders is proper and polite, even if he persists in his habit of thanking the servants. He inclines his head to Dianna before he sets his cup aside and rises to his feet, tugging at his belt to straighten his robes. It takes some conscious thought to suppress the impulse to smile at her, but somehow he thinks it wouldn’t be fair to her, or to Fenris, if he were to somehow lead her on. Once she vanishes from his doorway he steps through, taking his staff and heading down the corridor to the small lab he’s been given to work in.

Inside the lab is certainly a scene, and likely not the one Anders expects.  
On one of the lower tables Fenris has been laid out, naked against the cool, but quickly warming metal top. Carnality looms over him, both arms locked straight at either side of Fenris’ shoulders, head low, the elf’s elbows propped under him to meet their light kiss. The demon teases at him, lets their lips meet only so briefly before shying away by a few inches, maddening and just barely out of reach. His hips give little rocks forward, between Fenris’ thighs and leaning just so to grind their erections together, the small thrusts between them shamelessly teasing and only encouraging Fenris to strain his neck a little farther upward each time, lips parted and wanting, Carnality breathily smiling. While the demon is hard Fenris’ cock is straining and snared, tight and flushed, veins thick and balls pulled until they’re plump and perfectly rounded, the gentlest crease marking the center. At the head is something else, an empty glass sphere, secured in place with another metal ring securing just behind the flare of the tip, flustering that edge redder with every slight jostle, the short and thin neck of the glass spreading open the slit.  
Danarius is seated at one of the few chairs available in the room, one leg loosely crossed over the other under his robes. He looks up as Anders enters, and waves him in casually. “Ah, there you are, little dove. I was rather hoping you could be of assistance.”

Anders nearly drops his staff when the door swings open. He stares, jaw dropped and eyes wide, and instantly he feels too warm for his robes, his cheeks flushed red and his cock straining in his pants. “Fasta vass!” The words slip out, a hiss, a sigh, as Anders fumbles with his staff and pulls the door shut behind him.  
“What exactly– What are yo– ” He can’t take his eyes off Fenris. His fingers flex and curl the moment he leans his staff against the wall; his hands want to be on that bare skin. He brings his hands to his face but his fingers spread rather than block the view, as he pushes them up and back and through his hair, nearly trembling where he stands. The demon on Fenris lifts his head, looks over his shoulder, and gives Anders a smile that feels far too familiar. Knowing well what Danarius wishes, Carnality slips off the table, claws softly clicking on the floor as he slinks to his summoner’s side.  
“Right. Yes.” Several breaths later, Anders is almost lucid again. “What can I do for you?”

Fenris looks just as surprised as Anders, eyes shooting to the door and wide, then turning his attention back to Carnality, silently pleading as the demon gets off of him, leaving his knees spread and his cock stiff and feeling far too exposed in the open air, and the elf turns his head down to one side to hide the horrible blush creeping into his cheeks.  
“A colleague of mine is a well respected breeder that requested a sample from our pet wolf. I could just send him, but… Helene didn’t pay to have all the fun. I imagined you would rather oblige?”

“Ser, you’re saying I–” Anders’s voice breaks. His mouth is dry, and he can’t take his eyes off Fenris’s blushing face, and the way he almost tries to hide behind the fall of his silver hair. His knees feel like they could buckle at any moment, and his balls already feel full and tight, just at the anticipation of what he’s been offered and the lurid display before him.  
With a quick swipe of his tongue, Anders wets his lips and glances, quickly, to Danarius. “I don’t wish to be insubordinate, Master, but … ” Again, his gaze settles on Fenris and stays there, captivated by the flash of his ribs as he pants for breath, the soft groove of a tendon that curves across his inner thigh, and his ready, harnessed cock arched over his belly. Carnality whispers in the Magister’s ear as Anders begins to tremble, naked craving on his face, and everything else within him giving way and starting to crumble. Slowly, he backs way, shaking his head.  
“…I can’t… I’m sorry, I …can’t…”

Well this is certainly a new development. Danarius cants his head gently towards the demon’s lips, as if anything less and the apprentice would overhear, and a light of understanding dawns on the man’s face. He decides he wants to hear the reason from Anders directly, and with the eyes that already seem comfortable with an answer yet to be given he asks a simple, “Oh? Why?”  
The longer both mages linger the more mixed Fenris feels, left alone and wanting nothing more to be touched, and faint cooling of his erection quickly brought back to attention with a silent hum from the metal ring, just a short buzz enough to make his cock twitch. He finally manages to glance up past his hair to level a pleading but intense look to Anders, that he get on with whatever decision he’s going to come to.

“I don’t know what he wants, how he feels… ” Anders casts a pleading look to Danarius. “I care for him too much to hurt him again.” Once the words are out of his mouth, he feels somehow less torn. Still, it barely makes a dent in the tension he feels. He ends up staring hungrily at Fenris again, even knowing how much it sabotages him to even look. He wonders how long the Magister and his demon have had Fenris like this, how long he’s been teased and denied.  
Carnality slinks back to the table, arms around Fenris’s lifted shoulders from behind as he provides the slave with a shoulder to rest his head upon. His clawed hands stroke a smooth path over Fenris’s belly, one hand dipping down to cup and caress his balls, to lift them while he looks Anders directly in the eye. It’s an uncommon treat, to tease two mortals at once.

Fenris groans as his toes spread, balls of his feet pressing down as his heels arch off the tabletop by a couple inches, hips rising to the barest touch. His head drops to Carnality’s shoulder, but only to whisper quiet obscenities for being so tortured, the slightest snarl pulling his lip and showing the edges of his teeth.  
Danarius chuckles, the same way one would when a child has completely missed an answer to a conundrum for how simple it is. “If you wish to refuse, I won’t punish your choice. But if /his/ choice is your reason, why are you taking it away from him?”

Anders looks to Danarius in confusion. “Taking it away how? What do you mean?” But as if Fenris’s groan were a tug on his own leash, Anders finds himself standing at the table’s edge, his arms at his sides only because he’s so conscious of how badly they want to reach out and touch what’s in front of him.

The string of whispering continues into Carnality’s ear, the topic becoming less about the demon and more about damn mages that won’t make up their damned minds, not that either of them can hear him, his eyes half lidded and words a murmured slur.  
“And if he wants you? Does refusing not deny him? Wouldn’t it be better to go halfway and see if he’ll meet you for it?”

 

Anders considers that, his eyes on Fenris and Carnality the entire time. At length he nods and finally, closes the last few inches of distance to the table. He leans over Fenris, surprised when Carnality takes the elf’s chin in his hand and turns his head towards him. Anders kisses Fenris’s open, panting mouth. His tongue shoves its way past his teeth, and Anders wraps his arms around Fenris back to hold him to the kiss. Carnality slips away again, relinquishing his favorite playmate and returning to Danarius’s side.  
“I want you,” Anders whispers when their kiss breaks. A glistening thread of saliva stretches between their barely-parted lips. “Will you have me?”

Fenris answers with his body before the question is even asked, moans quieted by their kiss, his eyelids slipping the rest of the way closed and brows lifting as he returns the kiss, not lifting his arms to cling to the apprentice but arching his back at the touch, chest lifting closer and panting through his nose, lips parting farther until Anders pulls away. “..of course.”  
As the slave responds well enough Carnality sinks to his knees, at Danarius’ side but then resting a hand to one thigh, coaxing his legs apart under the robes.

Anders starts shucking himself out of his clothing. His belt falls to the floor, and his robes join it, a puddle of cloth at his feet once they slip off his shoulders. He pushes his trousers and smalls down off his hips, lets them roll just below the crease of his rump, and with one hand following the line of russet hair low on his belly, he hefts his shaft and his balls.  
He brings one knee onto the table, then the other, his hardon bobbing with the motions of getting himself onto the table and between Fenris’s spread knees. With one arm looping under Fenris’s thigh, he spreads him further, glimpsing the crevasse and clean pucker of Fenris’s ass. Then his eyes lift a bit and he lets himself stare unabashedly at the ring settled teasingly just below the ridge of Fenris’s tip, and the round phial it clamps in place at his slit. “Let’s see if you can’t fill that to the brim,” he murmurs. 

Fenris gulps and when he parts his lips to inhale again his breath is ragged, cock overhanging his stomach in a perfect and gentle arc, and as his ass is spread open the tight bud of his anus is glistening, already well-oiled beforehand by the demon and ready. As he realizes what a sight he’s being, how Anders’ erection bobs heavily in the air with lust just from looking at him, a drip of precum tries to pool at his slit only to trickle into the glass, a single drop leveling in the ball. He glances away with a small shudder, suddenly self conscious at every last drop accounted for and on display.

Anders moves into place, then lowers himself, sitting on his heels. He takes Fenris by the hips, pulling them onto his lap, propping them against his thighs so Fenris’s cock arcs downward and gravity draws another crystal drop into the phial. At last, leaning forward, Anders guides himself in. The first push is agonizingly slow, Fenris’s pucker feverishly hot and smooth around the fat tip of Anders’s cock. When he finally feels that subtle pop of pushing past resistance, Anders rocks forward, tilting Fenris’s hips almost vertical beneath him.

With a tiny whimper of a moan Fenris winces his eyes shut. The pucker of his ass gives and slips wider easily, forced to accommodate the erection with little resistance, but while he was well oiled it becomes apparent that the demon didn’t stretch him. A couple fingers mean nothing against Anders’ cock, tip as wide as the rest of his length and bluntly pushing forward, but despite the ache Fenris hooks a leg around Anders, across his ass and rocks forward to penetrate himself the rest of the way. He sucks in a sharp gasp as he’s spread wider, Anders sinking deeper to fill him until his ass presses and pillows firmly against the bones of the mage’s hips.  
For a moment he pauses there, the head of the apprentice’s cockhead weighing down on that place deep within him, the spot telling him to shamelessly beg to get fucked, and hard. Fenris lets the tightened muscles in his leg slacken, his own hips carefully rocking down and back, Anders slipping out of him and shaft freshly glistening with oil, then with a quick jerk of his leg he impales himself again to the hilt, cock twitching with his effort.

He would have been cautious, taken his time, somehow finding a last scrap of patience to spend for Fenris’ sake if the slave had let him. But instead he feels those hips roll under him, and Fenris’s body, already exquisitely tight around his shaft, gives him that long tug and sudden, hard stroke. Anders moans out loud, bracing his hands against the table and gazing down at Fenris with open-mouthed, enraptured surprise. He can feel himself dripping, almost streaming into Fenris, and the next thrust he makes is smoother for it, even if Fenris’s ass is relentlessly tight around him. Anders’s hips lift and roll, pistoning into Fenris, his rhythm starting off quick and growing steadily more demanding.  
It feels debauched, rutting here with the Magister watching, but it’s deliciously so and Anders feels gluttonously hungry for it. He casts a brief, smouldering look at the magister, wondering if he’ll be able to see the pleasure in Danarius’s face while his demon is at work between his knees. He smiles for him regardless, sensual, grateful, and inviting.

Over at the chair Danarius looks deeply pleased but not unaware, the same look he’d give after winning a game of chess with a few drinks down, relaxed and intently watching what he’s orchestrated. Settled in front of his lap Carnality has parted and unbuttoned only the clothes directly in his way. The magister may be older but his erection is still strong and thick, as wet as Anders is with the demon’s saliva, Carnality bobbing his head along the length, somewhat mimicking the fucking nearby with his motions and rocking his chin back, lightly pulling and sucking at the tip of the man’s cock before sinking back down until he swallows the entire length, the tip of the demon’s tail flicking like a playful cat.  
Fenris hardly spares a glance for either of them, doesn’t much have the chance to, his eyes only cracking open to look at the vague outlines of Anders’ features before he bites his lip and closes them again to stifle a moan. It doesn’t matter, closing his eyes just brings the drag of Anders’ skin to crisp clarity, the slide of how deep he goes and how long he is, wide shaft making sure he feels it the entire way until he settles to the man’s ass again. Precum makes a small pool in the glass, the neck of it fucking his cock with their movements as much as Anders is taking his ass, and his brows knit together, overwhelmed as a moan overtakes him.

As that moan fades to more panting breaths, there’s a hand smoothing Fenris’s hair back from his forehead. “That’s it,” Anders whispers, hunching down to bring his lips to Fenris’s face. His pace barely slackens for it, and he quickly makes up the difference. “Feel it, let it come… ” He moans against the crook of Fenris’s neck as he trails off. “Maker, you’re so /tight/…!” Fenris’s body feels molten hot around his dick, his insides smooth as satin yet gripping him like a vice with every stroke. He can feel every throb of his quickening pulse in the thick veins of his shaft, and he can feel himself swollen to his hardest, even his tip taut as a drum as he batters at that swollen spot inside Fenris’s ass. For a few long moments everything feels perfectly decadent. Each thrust he makes is long and deep and the feeling of his tip sliding past Fenris’s spot makes his toes curl. His balls feel heavy and over-full but the ache in them is sweet, tangled up in the growing tension low in his belly, that tight, urgent feeling that winds just a hair tighter with every stroke. When Anders raises his head, his cheeks and lips are red, his eyes dark and blissful and shameless.

Fenris shuts his eyes tightly, grits his teeth with Anders’ words whispering into his ears and filling his head. One already full with the slapping of Anders’ balls against his ass as they threaten to seed him, the noisy, graceless slurp of Carnality sucking his master in a messy likeness of their coupling, Danarius clearly daydreaming himself mounting the elf so fully.  
He chokes down a groan at the possibility of his master’s jealousy, the thought fleeting and slipping away as Anders’ cock seems to pummel against him harder, or at least he notices it more, his ass growing more sensitive with each passing moment and slap of their hips. His ass is flushed red from the abuse, deeply flustered cock bouncing against his stomach and balls tightly plump like a peach, and his thighs begin to spread farther apart, begging for Anders to find deeper purchase. With a shiver of his cock the pressure finally builds past his bindings, tightening his stomach, thighs clutching at Anders’ hips, the tight rings of muscle in his ass pulling and bearing down on the cock fucking him. As the shaft slams past the resistance braces along every detail, the sides stretching him wide and defined throat holding him open, and with a weak cry Fenris’ hips buck violently, pinned in the air and smothering against Anders’ hips, the slit of his cock trying desperately to flex around the glass that keeps it forced open, cum spurting against the walls of the bubble, then beginning to fill it as his cock pumps itself.

Anders reaches down, cupping Fenris’s full, round balls, and squeezes them in his palm. Even with his dick buried inside the slave, and Fenris’s body tightening around it as if trying to squeeze the life out of his erection, he remembers the ostensible purpose of the exercise. Or perhaps he stares at that glass bubble and the thick white jism pooling in it for other reasons entirely. Still, he squeezes, not violently but with gradually increasing pressure, as if it might help force every drop out of Fenris. He doesn’t thrust, but grinds his tip against Fenris’s spot with quick, sharp jerks.  
“Fenris…” There’s a sudden change in Anders, passing through him like a breaking wave. Muscles that had been tense to the point of shaking suddenly ease, and he stares down at his lover with glazed, unfocused eyes and his face filled with something akin to awe. For just a second, a brief moment, he’s perfectly still, and yet that second seems to stretch on and on. Then his hips start to buck. His eyes roll back and shut, his head lolls back and a ragged cry comes from his open mouth. In the tight confines of Fenris’s body his cock jerks and spasms, and every brutal throb sends cream pulsing into Fenris’s ass.


	14. Chapter 14

Anders has barely had time to sit down all morning. He has glassware and other tools set up on the workbenches of his small lab, alcohol burners set under various flasks as he concocts the potions Danarius requested. Most of what he wanted was familiar, but Anders has had to delve into a couple of new recipes. If he were a little less tired he would welcome the distraction. A cold, almost untouched mug of tea sits on a table by the door while Anders grinds some dried herbs down to powder with a mortar and pestle. Every now and then he pauses, as if something in the back of his mind keeps intruding on him. He pauses, and he sighs.

 

There might be a quick step to his feet along the carpeted halls but while Fenris considers himself late, there is no true rush to the morning. When he woke Danarius had told him to take his time and it was a simple fact than a luxury; the slave wouldn’t be needed until a few hours after his master had started work in the master laboratory. Still, Fenris always considered himself prompt even if it meant then standing by and watching the man work for a while. There was something comforting in seeing him concentrate so. It always reminded him of the time after the experiment, when he was still strapped and half dead on the man’s table, how Danarius almost seemed to make excuses for anything he could busy himself with in the room just to keep watch that the elf wouldn’t give up on him.  
The light and sounds of work from under the apprentice lab door brings Fenris out of the memory and he stops. Normally there would be no hesitation, regardless of his feelings toward the room or the person inside, but this time it takes visible effort, definite will for him to reach forward for the handle. But when he does his mind cools and settles into place, and he opens the door. “Did you need any more-” His words fall flat as he glances down at the tea still by the door, long cold, and mentally stumbles for a reason to be standing there. “Is there anything you need?”

Anders turns. He leaves his work on the bench behind him, and for a moment it slips out of his mind in favor of trying to find an answer. Words fail him, and instead he just looks, an expression of such utter beseeching on his face without him even realizing it. His brows drawn upwards plaintively, his eyes large and sad beneath them, his full bottom lip even thrust outward in a hint of a pout. “I… No, I’m… fine.”

Fenris nearly says okay. He nearly just leaves the room at that. It would be so easy to leave on so shallow a reading, would be so easy to ignore the troubling look on Anders’ face. The apprentice was always so confusing, after yesterday he would have assumed the man would be at least somewhat happier. But against his better judgement, for the same reason that his eyebrows break the neutral expression to knit with how perplexed he is, Fenris stays. “What is it?”

“I…” Anders lowers his head, looks away as if ashamed of himself. “…I missed you last night, is all. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to tr–SHITE!” A hissing sound over one of the burners announces a flask boiling over. Anders pulls it from its clamp as quickly as he can, with a chorus of “Ow, ow, ow, ow, /owww/” as the hot glass scalds his hand. He sets it down quickly, and while he shakes his burned hand in the air, grabs a pair of steel tongs with the other and gives the flask a quick swirl to stir its contents. After a scrutinizing look, he apparently judges the concoction acceptable, and pours it into a graduated cylinder, clamped in place over a beaker of pinkish red syrup. He twists a tap on that cylinder and the searing hot concoction begins to drip into the flask. “….owwwwww, fuck…”

Fenris had only begun to look all the worse with Anders’ answer, completely baffled how one night could change the man’s mood so drastically. It was true, Danarius had taken him for the rest of the night to show just how appreciative he was of the ‘little show’ he and Anders had put on, but before he can think too deeply about it the chaos ensues in the lab. His eyebrows shoot straight up again, on the verge of rushing forward to help but realizing in the same moment there’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t know where the work needs to go, he can’t mend Anders’ hand anymore than the mage can. Fenris’ head dips as he looks down, and he reaches back for the door’s handle. “I apologize, I won’t be of further distraction for you.”

“No, don’t!” Anders blurts the words out on impulse, but when it’s enough to make Fenris pause, he thrusts out his burned hand and gives him another beseeching look, this one far more tender than sad. “Kiss it better?”

For a moment Fenris gives Anders the oddest look, head tipping just an inch to one side, like he can’t decide whether to break it to the man that 'kissing it better’ doesn’t actually work or if this is some new level of flirting, hurting yourself just to have an excuse. But without mentioning either Fenris drops his grip from the door handle and straightens, raises his palm to the back of Anders’ hand and lifts it as he dips his chin to lightly brush his lips to the wound, the barest pressure before he lifts his head again, eyes glancing up past his brow.

The burn, obviously, is still there. But Anders’s face lights up. He gives Fenris a wide smile as healing magic gathers in his hand. “Thanks,” he says almost bashfully. “I’ve got a lot to do, but… I’ll look for you after supper, alright?” He glances back at the bench, where the pinkish syrup is starting to cloud with purple swirls, and he quickly shuts the valve on the cylinder.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s late when Fenris manages to get back to his room that night. The door shuts loudly enough behind him when he gently kicks it closed that the sound echoes down the hall, his arms reaching back over his shoulders to press and stretch the muscles along his spine, knots above the blades from standing with alert tension for hours. His clothes shed one by one, gauntlets, chest plate, the wide belt from his hips, vest with sleeves to pull, leggings to peel out of. A trail of abandoned clothing trails to the bed; Fenris notices a few spots of gore, a thin splatter of blood across the chest, a few drops marking one gauntlet, but pays them no mind. As he was dismissed from the lab a small cleaning crew had shuffled in, and once they were done they would likely come by for his clothes either now or tomorrow morning.  
Finally stripped of every last scrap of leather, paneled cloth and metal Fenris crashes into a sprawl across his bed, unmoving for a few moments in the darkness, unwinding in the silence before he manages to dig under the covers.

Anders sits up when he hears the sound of Fenris’s door closing. It takes a moment or two to wrap up his thoughts, set them aside, and the aftertaste of being angry and confused with himself still lingers. No wonder Fenris finds him baffling, when even he has to admit that his feelings, his actions, have been making no sense. He -had- looked for Fenris after supper, and being told he was still with Danarius, returned to his own lab.  
So Fenris was busy. So was he, he had plenty to do. They were just both otherwise occupied and there was no logical reason to be this upset about sleeping in an empty bed. Sleeping in an empty bed again. Or rather, lying awake in one, trying to figure out why he was so miserable with yearning over somebody he’d spoken to just that morning. That’s hardly long enough to /miss/ someone. When he pushes himself out of bed, it’s with a mutter about his own absurdity. And when he opens the door to Fenris’s room, he’s standing there barefoot and in nothing but his smallclothes, just as he was the last time he visited this way.

Fenris cracks a corner of one eye still turned towards the bed, half expecting that one of the cleaning slaves had trotted after him and waited until the best moment to slink in and scoop up the mess of clothing. When instead Anders is standing there, nearly as naked as he is, Fenris sits up, propping himself up with one arm. He still feels completely lost about the man, not only from the apprentice’s actions but from what it is, exactly, that he wants. But he doesn’t let a moment of it show on his face, regarding Anders as neutrally as if it were midday and this were the most casual moment in the world. Everyone seems to know what he wants, when all he wants is time. Time like the one moment of standing in his doorway.

That neutral stare makes Anders hesitate, with doubt and apology written on his face. But all it is is a moment’s pause. He approaches, bending down when he reaches the bed to kiss Fenris’s lips. It isn’t deep or hungry. If anything, there’s a sense of inquiry in the way Anders lingers close, waiting to see if Fenris returns the kiss. The cool night air has raised goosebumps on his skin, and it makes Fenris’s bed all the more tempting.

Fenris glances down as Anders kisses him, something somber in his eyes for a second before he closes them. With a small tip of the chin he opens his mouth, no sense of urgency but a quiet invitation, and he pushes down with the heel of his palm to the bed to press forward. His lips lean closer first but his shoulders, then chest follow suit, sinking nearer with a deep breath through his nose, and an honestly content sigh.

Anders slips his arms around Fenris when he leans into the kiss. The sigh perfectly echos his own feelings, and his lips twitch into a faint smile even while he parts and presses them against Fenris’s open mouth. He tugs at the blankets and slips under them as he climbs into bed. His tongue slips past Fenris’s teeth, and even though he’d entered the room with no intention of doing anything but holding Fenris while they slept, he feels his dick twitch and swell with interest.

The arm propping Fenris up gives way and he sinks down to his elbow, then flat to his back, slowly enough to coax Anders down with him and their kiss intact. His hands raise, tentative, to Anders’ shoulders, cups the front curve of muscle with his palm, fingers loosely curling over, an open touch the apprentice could pull away from easily. It reminds him of the day before, his dick beginning to stir at the memory of being so.. ‘well mated’ as Danarius had put it before trying it himself later that night. But this time he breaks the kiss with a turn of his head, and rests his temple to Anders’ cheek.

Anders sighs at the touch, his warm breath skimming across Fenris’s ear. “I want everything,” he whispers. “Your touch and your kiss and even your jealousy. I tried to stop thinking about you but I can’t… and I don’t think I want that to change, ever. I know how absurd it is but… I can’t help it. I can’t help myself.” He lets some portion of his weight rest on Fenris, the hard bulge at his crotch pressing down against Fenris’s hip.

Fenris sighs under Anders’ chest, the breath ragged at the ends and with a whisper of a groan as he shifts his hips until their arousal rests along each other. His head drops back to the pillow, white with his hair, and his eyes fall to one side. “I know.” Despite the clearly torn reactions his hands tighten, not forcing Anders in place but clinging at his shoulders all the same, fingers gripped to the curve.

Anders kisses the corner of Fenris’s jaw. He makes no move to pull away – if anything he’s pliant to the pressure of Fenris’s hands, letting him hold him in place, even savoring the decisive strength he has. “What troubles you?” His voice is muted and gentle.

Fenris opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes to mind, and he turns his chin to find Anders instead, plants a few small, pleading kisses to the apprentice’s lips and skin and stubble, before he lets himself burn out and simply rest his lips in place. He shakes his head, “It was a long day.” Which is true enough.  
At that moment the door cracks open, a woman freezing at the door at the sight of the apprentice in the bed with Fenris. With a tiny gasp she averts her eyes and practically falls to her knees as she reaches out to gather the armor and clothes, bundling up the metal pieces in the center and rolling the sleeves around the sharper edges as fast as possible.

Anders has been walked in on enough times in the circle that he just lifts his head and grins at the servant, before pulling the covers up over their heads. He peppers Fenris’s chest with kisses until he hears the servant leave, and the door shut behind her. “That it was,” he murmurs. “It’s a good excuse to treat you to… something.”

The elf’s expression finally breaks to a small smile and a raised eyebrow, the covers over them reminding him of kids feigning sleep, only made more amusing from how obviously they aren’t. But the amusement fades as Anders’ lips press to his skin, and he holds his breath, lungs frozen in place under the mage’s mouth, until he hears the door closed. Even without sound his dick gives his interest away, throbbing once between them. “I don’t think you follow.”

Anders chuckles at that, pulling the covers back down and settling once more. “You want sleep?” He kisses Fenris again, but it’s playful more than amorous, no matter how hard he is under his smalls. “Your choice, as long as I’m in bed with you I’m happy.”

“No, I-” Fenris just stops there, groans and lightly drops a palm to his face in frustration. His emotions have never betrayed him so harshly before. He’s not even sure what he wants or doesn’t want, when it’s not even his choice to really make. “I apologize. You can do anything you want with me.”

“But what I want is to be good to you.” Anders says it tenderly. He rests some of his weight on his elbows, freeing his hands to smooth back Fenris’s hair. “It keeps coming down to that.” His tone becomes a bit dry as the idea finally solidifies. He keeps wanting to do what Fenris wants, but Fenris isn’t sure what he wants, and demanding that of him just seems to make him confused and upset. Even if he just intends to be gallant, maybe it isn’t what Fenris needs. “Alright, I’ll give you a choice, as well my promise they’ll both be -very- good to you. Do you want to come in my mouth or in my ass?”

Fenris picks up his hand to stare at Anders with a loudly deadpan, “/WHAT./” For a few moments he just blinks at the man in a dumb shock, until some realization dawns on him, and his head drops back to the pillow with a deflating sigh of utter disappointment. “Carnality, this isn’t amusing.”

Anders blinks rapidly in the dark. “That’s probably the most descriptively accurate pet name I’ve been given but I wasn’t joking. I’ve been on you twice now, it’s your /turn/.”

When no demon laughs and materializes with an oh you got me, Fenris isn’t sure whether to be shocked again or relieved, and he glances up. “Then, you’re not him.” But, more importantly, “/My turn?/”

Anders blinks again, and then slowly his eyes go wide. He begins to grin. “Have you /never/ been on top, Fenris? /Maker/, now I’ve /got/ to do this, where’s the salve?” He raises his head to glance around the darkened room while he hitches his thumbs under the waist of his smalls, pushing them down.

“It’s in the bathroom.” Fenris props himself up to his elbows, watching Anders’ movements carefully, and for all their talk it still hadn’t even dawned on him, really, that Anders intended to do this to himself and not bring in some other slave to fulfill the task while he watched. “/Why?/”

Yet again, Anders gives Fenris an utterly baffled look, limned by the magelight he holds in one hand as he stands beside the bed. “What do you mean, ‘why’? It feels incredible, at least if you do it right. Don’t claim ignorance either, I’ve seen how hard you get off on it. That sweet spot inside you isn’t some magical bliss-gland that only elven slaves have, you know.” Anders pads into the small bath-chamber and returns shortly, lube in hand, erection bobbing with each stride.

“…/magical bliss gland/..” Fenris sits up, hands behind him and chest in a gentle curve through his stomach to his hips, eyes drifting down on Anders’ body before glancing away to stifle a blush before it burns his cheeks too hot. “That’s not what I meant.” And even if it isn’t his own dick betrays him, tenting the blanket in his lap.

Anders swings a leg onto the bed, settling astride Fenris’s knees. Even though he is certainly the genuine Anders, the grin he wears would look equally at home on Carnality’s face. “I notice you haven’t said you don’t want to fuck me, so I’m going to take that as encouragement. Correct me if I’m wrong.” Anders twists the lid of the jar of salve and scoops a good portion onto his fingertips. He lowers his head and looks Fenris in the eyes as he reaches behind himself, swabbing his fingers across his own anus. Across, around, and finally in, with a muted hint of a moan parting his lips.

“No, but-” Fenris drops his head only to land his eyes directly on Anders’ erection, the way it lightly bobs in the air with the movements of the man’s fingers as he toys with his ass. So he looks up again, and tries desperately to ignore the teasing looks of pleasure beginning to lap at the edges of Anders’ mind. “It isn’t something a master asks for.”

Anders opens his mouth to say something, but after a moment and an inward look, he hesitates, and looks for different words. “You’ve mentioned before I’m terrible at this 'master’ business. I can’t deny it, either. But if getting fucked is wrong I don’t want to be right.” His eyes roll shut for a moment as he delves into himself with two fingers. His body arches as he tries to bring his fingertips to his prostate. His cock flexes when he finds it, a clear drop gathering at its tip and confirming the mage’s magical bliss-gland is working just fine. 

Fenris finally gives in for that. There’s no use in fighting something the apprentice wants simply because of the implications Anders likely isn’t aware of or cares about. So Fenris makes an effort to make up for his lapse. He places his palms flat on Anders’ stomach, each just above a crest of hipbone, then dips his head to draw his tongue to the underside of the erection presented to him. He steadies the tip as he lets it pillow against his wet tongue and hot breath, then closes his lips in a kiss surrounding the slit, sucks up the drop and lets a bit more of the head in, squeezing it between his lips.

Anders’ free hand comes to rest on Fenris’s hair. He tilts his hips forward and his cock flexes at its root, held in place by Fenris’s lips for his tongue to have its way with. The room is dark but Anders can still just barely make out Fenris’s face, the cupid’s-bow curve of his lips wrapped around the glistening fat tip of his erection, and he groans. It’s enough to make him willing to abandon his plan in favor of just this, to give himself over to Fenris’s skill and odd delicacy.

Fenris closes his eyes and lets his head sink an inch farther, mouth still tight until the edge pops past them and settles just behind lip-cushioned teeth. He gives a firm tug of a suck then lets go, Anders’ cock left to the air and the breath sighing from the elf’s nose, then he tips his head to one side to kiss the delicate frenulum tethered between the shaft and cockhead. Finally he glances up, lips still pillowing against the shaft edge, suddenly unsure when this is definitely not what Anders proposed they do.

Disapproval is the furthest thing from Anders’ expression at that moment. His eyes are lidded with indulgent pleasure, his cheeks red. "You’re /very/ good…“ he purrs, his fingers pushing through Fenris’s hair. "Now lie back for me.” A fresh drop of precum still gathers at Anders’ tip, to smear Fenris’s lips before he abandons that erotic kiss.

Fenris does as he’s told without a word, and though his eyes are intense from their complete attention they remain somewhat questioning. That gaze remains locked with Anders as he straightens, rocks his weight to lean on the heels of his palms as he sets them behind him, then sinks back as they fold down and settle to the bed. Only then, still propped by his elbows, does he break the gaze to glance down to Anders’ cock, his own erection and the silhouette behind it of Anders’ ass and the inside of his parted thighs, and he lowers himself the rest of the way until his head leans against the pillow.

Anders walks forward on his knees until he’s straddling Fenris’s hips. He locks gazes with Fenris as he takes hold of his shaft and lowers himself onto it. Penetration is slow but smooth, in part because Anders controls the pace, the depth of it, but soon after Fenris’s tip slips past the ring of his anus, he bears down and takes his full length. His cock twitches, hard, as he settles his weight on Fenris’s pelvis, impaled on the slave’s shaft and feeling every inch. His brows draw upwards, naked vulnerability interwoven with the pleasure in his eyes. "Oh, gods…“

Any question in Fenris’ eyes fade, his brows knitting together as his eyes wince shut, lips parting to reveal his clenched teeth. His throat hums with a moan that hisses past them, cracks his eyes open to stare as he lifts his sheathed cock upward, hips rising from the bed, Anders’ ass making a tight ring to choke at the base of his shaft. The lift is slow, hardly a movement save the shifting of skin between them, but after a few lingering moments Fenris gives a small instinctual twitch, pulling out a few inches only to jerk back upwards with a quiet rap of hips to ass.

With a sweet, breathy sound of pleasure Anders falls forward, bracing himself with his hands to either side of Fenris’s shoulders. "Oh gods, oh /gods/…” he repeats, and a tremor enters his voice. It isn’t that Fenris is much larger than he’s had in the past, though Anders feels certain he’s never had anyone with quite this length inside him. It’s that it finally sinks in that it’s been so /long/ since he’s had this. Nothing since before… his mind shies away from the thought. Nothing in well over a year, nothing in nearly two but the occasional tease from his own fingers. His dick is so hard that the veins in his shaft almost seem to be straining, The drop at his tip swells and slides down the groove of his tip until it makes a slow fall to Fenris’s belly, trailing a silvery thread behind. "Do it, do it /please/…“

Fenris barely needs any coaxing. His knees pull up, feet finding a secure place against the mattress where he can sink their weight, and with his hands still flat on the bed he flexes his muscles, all pulled to use as he rocks his hips higher than the first time, the movement stirring and rubbing at Anders’ tight insides as he comes back down. As his eyes close again Fenris begins in earnest, less the wide and slow arches and shorter, shallower thrusts upward, his thighs engaging to work his hips.

Anders moves along with him, choking on a moan as Fenris drives against that spot inside him. Neglected for so long, it feels sensitive and over-full, like a fruit so ripe it threatens to split its skin at a touch. His insides grip at Fenris’s shaft in rolling waves, yielding when he thrusts, seizing him tightly when he starts to drag back, as if there’s nothing his body craves more than that rigid cock, taking him. Anders’ erection bobs and bounces over Fenris’s smooth, taut belly with each thrust, more heavy drops following the first to make a warm puddle cradled in the centerline of his abs. Anders bites down on his lower lip after only a few moments of this, whimpering as he tries to hold back the sounds his body wants him to make. "Shit… I… I think I need you to be on top, I…” He can feel his face flushing, hear the catch in his voice that speaks of utter, wanton desperation. He raises his hands to his hair just to let him try and hide his face behind his arms. "Please take me /hard/…“

Fenris nods, a small shudder at his chin, and with a bit of effort he forces himself to stop and presses his elbows back under him to sit up. Or do close to that, with Anders planted on his hips, and he has to arch his back, straining forward with a small grind of his dick, just to press the bridge of his nose to Anders’ chest. With a careful, wary glance up past his hair Fenris reaches for Anders’ hips, grip firm but still treating every movement as if dealing with the thinnest glass, watching for the slightest disapproval as he grasps the apprentice by the hips and lifts him up, to set the man aside while he rises farther to his knees. His lips follow, keeping the mere inches between them, looking momentarily like he’s done something horrible for putting Anders somewhere.

Anders grabs Fenris by the shoulders and hauls him into a kiss. His knees stay spread wide in invitation, and his kiss is warm and desperately hungry. His skin is just as warm as that kiss – more than warm, hot enough to be felt even a finger’s-breadth away from touching it, but he tries not to let even that much space separate them. But while Fenris rolls his to his back, he’s empty, achingly empty, and he looks up at Fenris with a naked plea on his face, his hips lifted, his heels resting against Fenris’s haunches. "Please… please fuck me, I beg you, I need it… I /need/ you…”

It hardly takes those words for Fenris to follow Anders down, propped up by his palms as he leans in for a kiss, one too brief and too teasing and then he pulls away to sit back up, something quick enough he’d be able to get away with it for anyone else. Just as carefully as he had moved Anders he places a palm to the apprentice’s hip and turns him over onto his stomach. Both hands settle flat at Anders’ hips, only the pointer finger of each hand drawn along the crease between hip and thigh, and that’s all Fenris needs to lift the man’s hips and pull him back. Fenris pauses there, reaches for his shaft to press the slick tip to the man’s ready ass. There’s no friction between them; Fenris’ cock sinks back into place easily and he groans, lips pulling into a lazy snarl and gritted teeth as he gets used to being sheathed again.  
When he finally does all that sense of delicacy begins to fall away, Fenris’ fingers curling along Anders’ thighs as he thrusts forward, hard.

Anders’s skin twitches and quivers where Fenris’s fingertips draw along the tender creases of his thighs. His body stays supple and willing, and he lies on his chest and stomach as Fenris lifts and pulls his lean hips back. He yields, slick and ready and beyond eager, his glistening wet anus opening and flexing around the shaft that pierces it. Anders pushes back, only the fact that his joints feel like jelly keeping him from meeting that first thrust as violently as he wants. And then he remembers, or rather the thick shaft buried in him reminds him, just how much harder it hits that sweet spot in him when he’s taken from behind. He’s trembling, still. His cock flexes so hard the dripping tip kisses his belly, and the corners of his eyes feel the stinging heat of desperate tears. “Perfect…” His whisper is hoarse, breathless, half stifled against the pillow under his cheek.

With the sound of approval Fenris begins to thrust himself to Anders’ ass again. His hips are slow and unsteady at first, at odds with his mind between submissively polite and what his cock really wants. When he makes up his mind by simply ignoring the problem he quickly becomes brutal; his thighs and ass flexing tight as he rams forward, grip pulling Anders back into each impact, his balls tight and slapping against that short space of skin between Anders’ fully stretched ass and the hang of his balls. Fenris’ jaw drops open as his eyes shut, reveling as his shaft keeps forcing past the tight entrance, his tip squeezed at it’s pressed deeper, the edges dragging as he pulls out.

Anders clutches at the bedsheets. He buries his face in the pillow when he can to try and mute his moans, but every time he raises his face for a breath, those sounds come rough and loud from his throat. Wordless cries, broken pleas, and the other’s name, chanted in praise – “Fenris, /Fenris/…” The tremor in Anders begins to coalesce into a tense, heavy quiver in his thighs and the lowest part of his belly, his balls drawing up tight just below where Fenris’s swinging sack slaps against him. He arches his spine into a shameless, gorgeous curve, his ass offered up even further for Fenris’s plundering. Finally he raises his head from the pillow, his moans turning to shouts of pleasure, hot tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “Oh fuck, Oh fuck ohfuckohFUCK, I’m going to COME…”

Once the initial overwhelming shock settles through him Fenris’ thorough fucking is quiet in comparison, his inescapable moans there with every other violent thrust but muted amongst his gasps. With Anders’ muscles shivering and his cock buried in the core of it Fenris feels that familiar tightness in his stomach. He slows as he draws his hands back, each palm to the round curves behind the apprentice’s hips, and he spreads the cheeks apart, thumbs planted to the edges of the already straining asshole that hugs Fenris’ shaft, spread wide and the edges between them slick with oil. The balls of his feet dig against the bed as he rocks forwards again to keep burying himself, the time between each attempt longer but then an earnest one to place his cock deeper, pushing Anders forward a few inches and holding. Fenris’ hips make a few shorter jerks forward to settle him farther, and with a heavy shudder and a small surprised sound he cums, hips spasming and flush to Anders’ skin, balls tight and pillowed just below that tight pucker that’s been forced so wide.

Anders pushes back against Fenris with all the strength left in him. The tension in his body bends him like a strung bow, and his chest lifts from the bed in the moment before he starts to buck and grind in Fenris’s perfect, relentless grip. He screams, making only a token attempt to bring his forearm across his open mouth to muffle the sound. Under his quivering belly his thick cock leaps and strains, the full channel in its underbelly swelling as his cream rushes out in torrents, spilling into a glistening puddle between his spread knees. His insides hold Fenris in a rolling grip, so tight he can feel every pulse of his lover’s climax inside him, and the warm rush of his cum that fills him to the brim and starts to drip along the fine crease of the skin behind his balls.

Fenris’ hands are what loosen first, letting those spread cheeks settle back into place as his hips come to a staggering, reluctant halt. The taught muscles across his abs and stomach, threads of tension spreading towards his chest begin to retreat, his legs and back following suit. But relaxed keeps sinking into exhaustion and his strength leaves him in a rush, and Fenris drops to his hands. He remains there, barely propped over Anders’ shoulders as his lungs suddenly gasp for air as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time, and he’s left panting as small shivers tremble across the muscles in his back.

Anders collapses forward, and his shoulders rise and fall as he sucks in air. The room would feel cold if it weren’t for the weight and heat of Fenris on his back, and even with his mind reeling on the edge of unconsciousness his lips twitch into a soft smile. After a few moments of quiet with not a sound but their breathing, he manages to move, slipping one hand into Fenris’s and interweaving their fingers.


	16. Chapter 16

This time is much the same as the last; the light streams in through a couple thin windows, casts a long beam of light to bisect the room and land directly across the bed. The air is still cool, a small breeze of it wafting under the blanket in the space between two warm bodies. Not enough to be unpleasant, but enough of a bother with the light streaming in that Fenris sniffs as he cracks his eyes open.  
And this time, he doesn’t make a sudden movement to get away. This time is no longer wholly unfamiliar, and he sinks closer along Anders’ side, chin nestling against a small section of exposed neck and one arm curled along the nearest shoulder, a hug Anders could retreat from easily.

Anders does the opposite. Dimly aware of feeling warm where he was cold a moment ago, he curls into that hug, mumbling something sweet and slurred. By the time he’s even half awake, he has one leg over Fenris’s hip, one arm around his waist, and his cheek pressed against Fenris’s forehead. He eases into awareness with a contented sigh that stirs Fenris’s silver hair, and his fingers curling and uncurling in small, light strokes along Fenris’s spine.

What begins as a subtle want for contact becomes overwhelming. Fenris doesn’t pull away but his eyes draw open the rest of the way. He rolls onto his stomach, careful not to slip out of Anders’ bodily grasp, sticks his arms out forward to stretch, fingers splayed, before he folds them back in under his chin. His head tips to one side, quiet while he watches Anders drag himself to consciousness, and offers a hand for it, “Do you do this to everyone you sleep with?”

“Before you, I hadn’t slept with anyone in six years,” Anders murmurs. “So I guess I do, but you would be ‘everyone’.” Anders’s voice is low and sleepy, and he pauses to yawn. He stretches as well, having to let go in order to do it, though his chest and belly rest against Fenris as he arches stiffly, groaning as his muscles flex and ease. “Maker, I missed it, though.”

Fenris goes quiet again, intently watching how Anders moves, the slow ripples of muscle in his shoulders and everything else hidden under the covers but he can feel it, the way the muscles in the apprentice’s stomach go taught then release along his side. When Anders stops moving and finally settles again Fenris closes his eyes. “Then you are either particular or penniless for company.”

“Actually I was imprisoned for a year, and a fugitive for half a year more. And the couple of years before that every lay I had was some rushed, secret tryst. Done quickly and then forgotten. Not that I’m /not/ particular or penniless.” Anders’ tone is dry but not bitter, and he rests against Fenris peaceably. “How much has Danarius told you about how mages are treated outside of Tevinter?”

“We don’t often discuss what I don’t need to know.” Fenris opens his eyes again at that, lids narrowed half from sleep and half from a curious wariness that brings and odd intensity to the gaze even when lazy. “I have overheard some of it. Most of the city thinks everyone outside of Tevinter have barbaric practices, including the circles. Wild slaves usually mutter the opposite when they think no one else is listening.”

“Mages are kept captive in the Circles, under constant guard from the Templars. Mages can inherit no land or title, and we are denied any kind of family. It’s nothing like things here in Tevinter. Even slaves here are worth something to their masters. There, we are beholden utterly to people who believe we are cursed by the Maker, and the world would be better off if we dead. Just by suffering us to live they consider themselves kind to a fault… so what does it matter if they beat us, rape us, starve or imprison us.” Anders nearly spits the words, his tone more bitter by the moment, his shoulders tighter and his hands balling into fists.

Fenris shies away from the apprentice’s frustration, shoulders wincing closer together as he averts his eyes and goes silent. Only after Anders finishes, well after, does he utter a word. “…Did you have no purpose for them, then?”

“No. They considered me something they had to protect others from. My healing magic was grudgingly acknowledged as useful, but even that was rarely called upon outside the Circle itself. No matter how hard they tried to make it out to be a college, it always felt more like a prison.” Anders can feel Fenris wince, and he mitigates his tone, speaking softly, unclenching his fists. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry at you.”

“I know.” Fenris’ shoulders don’t immediately ease up with those soft words, something else bothering him, but he offers nothing.

Anders lifts his head enough to catch a better view of Fenris’s face. He moves his hands over the slave’s shoulders and chest, caressing him. He keeps silent, letting those touches speak for him instead.

Fenris finally sighs, his breath heavy and his tension flowing out with it after only a passing hesitation. It seems easier, less troubling to just stop thinking about whatever his mind stuck onto, and now that he’s cleared it he tips his chin to touch his forehead to Anders’ shoulder. Suddenly he looks a bit more casual, as if their conversation had never wandered in such a direction. “I will have to get up, eventually..”

“And so will I, eventually.” Anders dips his head down to kiss Fenris on the forehead. “But you make me want to linger. How long until we’re missed, do you think?”

“Breakfast.” Fenris closes his eyes at the kiss, at first a little wince but settling against the pillow as he accepts the unexpected gesture. “He knows where we are. Any later, he would likely reprimand you for keeping me.”

“Ah, I’ve no wish to try his patience.” Anders sighs. “It would be a poor way to pay him back for all he’s given me.” He keeps still a little longer before he sits up in bed, letting his legs swing over the edge.


	17. Chapter 17

Anders is at work in his laboratory, the door left open for now. All the previous days’ work has been flasked and stoppered and sits in a crate waiting for one of the servants to bring them to Danarius’s main lab. At the moment, Anders is mainly concerned with cleaning up and preparing for the next bit of alchemical work he wants to do. Two basins sit on the workbench side by side, one full of soapy water, the other for rinsing. A wooden rack sitting over a folded cloth already holds a number of drying beakers and tubes. The sleeves of Anders’ robes are rolled up past his elbows while he scrubs each piece of recently-used glassware.

Leaving the door open is like a prime invitation, really. Fenris strolls into the lab, casually, on silent feet and a confident stride. The rest of the hallway is generally quiet, the master lab door shut as usual recently but with no one mentioning why, if they know at all.  
Fenris slinks up behind the apprentice and slides his hands over the man’s shoulders, leaning forward and fingers trailing down the front of the robes until the elf’s chest presses to shoulderblades. “Well, if this doesn’t look entirely boring.”

Anders does look up, smiling at first at the sight of Fenris, but almost immediately he knows something is /off/ about the way he moves. And after that initial double-take, he can sense more off than only that. Posture stiff, he returns to doing his dishes. "You know this trick doesn’t work on mages. I take it you’re called Carnality?“

"It’s still fun.” The voice that comes out of Fenris’ mouth is no longer his, and while Carnality’s voice in and of itself is lovely, it carries something inhuman. Something subtle and fabricated, a manufactured honey. With a heavy sigh his height adjusts, taller, shedding the form as easily as changing clothes. “I wanted to properly introduce myself to the new apprentice.”

“Very well then, I’m Anders, how do you do.” The apprentice speaks dryly, without looking up from his work. “Huzzah, now I can cross ‘consorting with demons’ off my bucket list.” When Anders does steal a glance at Carnality it’s a wary one, and brief, as if what he sees is pleasing enough he dare not linger over it.

“Mmm?” Carnality doesn’t seem the least bit deterred. His breath against Anders’ skin isn’t hot, not like Fenris’ would be, or anyone else. The only real hint that it exists at all is the way it caresses the fine hairs at the back of the apprentice’s neck. Every last movement glides smoothly, a trained and careful motion, the way he raises his arms with hands dragging loosely over Anders’ clothes until they cross at the wrists just below the base of his neck, an extravagant collar that keeps well out of the way of his work. “So you haven’t met another, then? What have you been told, I wonder.”

Every breath on his neck stirs up memories of the night before, and Anders’ cheeks flush with pink. “That your kind will stop at nothing to influence and possess mages, so that you may have a foothold in this world.” His answer is forthright, and his voice no longer carries that wry tone, but turns outright cold. “Stop touching me. If you have business with me state it and be done.” 

Anders leans back against the workbench, actually taking time to think about Carnality and his words. His lips twitch into a slanted smile as he remembers the previous night. “That would explain what he said last night,” Anders mutters. “Alright, what are you asking for, from me? What do you want?”

“That depends on what you want to know, doesn’t it?” Carnality thinks, or appears to, his eyes glancing to the ceiling as a finger rests lightly to his perfect lips, tail flicking idly near his ankles. His finger snaps straight with an idea, his eyes sliding back down to Anders as he smiles. "How about, you volunteer what you want to give me, and I’ll answer your questions about your new pet.“

Anders shakes his head, quietly tsking. "But I don’t even know what you /like/.” his gaze wanders over Carnality again, speculative. “I want something from you up front. I want you to tell me why it won’t bother Fenris if we fool around, when he wouldn’t speak to me for days over Dianna. Convince me, and I’ll get down on my knees for you right here.” He looks Carnality in the eyes, lifting and tilting his chin with the challenge. “And anything else you can tell me then, I give you better service. But it’s all up to what you offer.” Anders begins to smile, his voice taking on a seductive, throaty softness. “If I like what I hear I’ll let you fuck my throat raw and blow your load on my face. Is that what you like, demon?” 

“Frankly, I don’t mind what we do, or who sucks who. But there’s a bit of a challenge in talking with my mouth full,” Carnality steps away from the counter’s edge, closer, and across the room the door quietly swings closed, making a quiet click as it shuts and the handle latch falls into place. “fucking my mouth senseless on your delicious cock… alas, perhaps some other time, when you’re not quite so.. /frugal/.” The demon sinks to touching Anders again, their bodies flush together, and unlike his breath there’s a definite heat between them, the demon only barely clad in thin gold chains and smalls that hardly conceal the shape of him. “He doesn’t mind because he knows what I am. Why begrudge someone for being hungry.”

Anders feels his pulse settle low in his groin. He leans in not for a kiss but to drag lips and teeth over the hollow below the demon’s throat, to taste his skin. The tip of his tongue traces the centerline of Carnality’s torso as Anders lowers himself to his knees then. “And that’s what this is… your ‘food’?” He reaches not for Carnality but the collar of his own robes, shucking them off his chest and shoulders until they hang from his belt and leave him bare-chested. With his eyes on Carnality’s face, he licks his flushing lips just to show them, plump and glistening, before his fingers curl below the waist of the demon’s thin loincloth.

Carnality sighs a hum of a moan, the sound as much his approval as arousal, his eyes half-lidded but never shutting as he looks over Anders’ features and bare chest with a smile. His erection begins to grow in earnest, with a small twitch, dreadfully obvious in detail despite the layer of meager clothing. “Of a sorts. While some of my kin may be determined to possess someone and live in a small burst of passion, I find it much wiser to trade for something so easily given. But you don’t /really/ want to know about me, do you?”

“Weren’t you just telling me what a liability ignorance is?” Anders pushes Carnality’s smalls down only an inch or two, giving him room to slip his hand under the fabric and cup the demon’s swelling cock and balls in his palm. He hefts them free of the cloth and leans in, breath skimming over Carnality’s twitching shaft before he drags his wet lips along the top of the shaft. “Tell me about you, Fenris, Danarius…” Anders’ hands skim upwards over Carnality’s thighs and hips, reaching to guide the demon’s clawed hands to his hair. When the demon’s full erection finally stands proud before him, Anders presses the head of it to the cushion of his lips. His lips part and suck, taking the tip only a bit at a time, his tongue playing over every bit of it as it slides into his mouth.

Carnality sighs, deeply, his cock flexing in a strain to Anders’ lips. His fingers spread wide, drawing through the apprentice’s blond hair, dragging across his scalp with a touch of the claws that make his hands seem longer. They close in place and hold Anders as the demon rocks his hips forward, firm but carefully slow to not scare off his new partner so soon, clearly a mind of his own and not as passive as the slaves and making this known as his shaft sinks into Anders’ mouth and cradles on his tongue. “Fenris asks me everything he fears asking anyone else. Danarius never asks anything because Fenris reports to him like a loyal dog, even if it betrays his own kind. But then, he does that a lot, doesn’t he.” The demon’s hands loosen, then, to give Anders a chance to answer, the slit of his cock already praising that hot mouth with a small clear drop.

Anders lets his eyes roll shut when he tastes the subtle, bitter tang of Carnality’s precum on his writhing tongue. When the clawed hands loosen in his hair, he bobs his head on the demon’s shaft, letting the tip threaten to gag him before he pulls back, breathing hot and heavy. “What do you mean by that, betraying his own kind?” Anders lavishes a kiss on Carnality’s tip but leans back again, further this time as he unbuckles his belt and pushes it down. He’s nude to the tops of his thighs now, his own cock standing full and flushed. Bracing himself on one hand, he wraps the other around his own shaft, looking Carnality in the eyes with shameless sensuality as he strokes himself, working the channel in his cock with the tips of his fingers until he drips with his own arousal.

The mix of precum and saliva glosses the demon’s cock, bringing forth every detail in the well lit and wide windowed room, the flushed pink skin more vibrant and every vein well defined. Carnality nips the corner of his bottom lip with a sharply edged tooth, eyes half lidded. With a curl of his clawed hand around the base of his cock and a firm squeeze precum drips from the slit, drawing a long trail that lazily falls through the air, a thinly stretched line until it snaps and drips to the floor. “He has cut down numbers of slaves, even ones he no longer remembers.”

Anders glances up, but once again he’s in a position where he cannot comment on what Carnality tells him. He brings his mouth to the demon’s cock again, lapping at it along the velvety raphe along the shaft’s tender underbelly. He takes the head into his mouth and sucks hard enough to hollow his cheeks, and then, with one hand wrapped around the base, he bobs his head quick and hard, dragging at Carnality’s length with wet, full lips. After a few strong sucks, though, he pauses. He brings the demon’s cockhead to the back of his mouth, where it nearly fills the space above his teasing tongue and threatens to choke him. He brings it to where he knows the demon can feel the dip and flex when he swallows, deliberate and hard. And then he raises his eyes to Carnality’s face again, as if looking for a reason to take those last few inches in.

Carnality groans, a deep luxurious sound that doesn’t mind who overhears, a purring thrum from deep in his chest that flutters his eyelids. He doesn’t let go of his dick, not completely, instead his hand spreads across the crest between his hip and the beginning of a thigh, leaving only his thumb and forefinger firmly pressed on either side of his shaft. The claws of his opposite hand knit through Anders’ hair, turns his wrist just to keep his grip firm for a few moments though he doesn’t force the apprentice down. “You should try asking him what Danarius /really/ spends his time working on. He won’t tell you. But you can try.”

It isn’t much, what Carnality offers. And objectively, Anders thinks, not really enough. But that “frugality” the demon accused him of is no longer ready to hand. Instead there’s the taste of skin and sex coating Anders’ tongue, there’s the view of each sleek ripple of Carnality’s belly and beyond it, that sensual mouth twitching its response to the movements of Anders’ lips and tongue. He takes those final inches, face tight with concentration as he swallows the demon’s fat tip. He takes Carnality into his throat with one tight, rolling swallow after another, lips sliding down his shaft until they’re flush against the fingers the demon holds himself with. He holds him there as long as he can stand, and then jerks back, gasping, panting, fresh tears on his cheeks from the effort of trying not to gag.

Carnality gasps another louder groan, a sound not self conscious in the slightest but this time less expected. His hips buck forward, a heavy twitch, a shudder of nerves sparking pleasure from the ripely fit to bursting tip down the shaft and through his hips and stomach, a wave that gathers his balls tighter. And then he does shudder, muscles drawn to sharp angles and straining, a shudder that washes up his legs and stomach and shoulders and spine, marring his face into a delicious agony as he watches Anders. Finally his cock follows the rest of his body, spasms powerfully between those lips though Carnality holds his cock in place, a sweet seed coating the man’s tongue. The demon’s jaw is dropped, panting earnestly, lungs suffering the same waves of his orgasm. Still, he manages to mutter, “Danarius took him, that night after he asked you to mount his pet.”

Anders holds his mouth open even after he draws back, face raised to catch the spill of Carnality’s seed. His own erection still juts proudly from the nexus of his thighs, and he strokes it with one hand while he watches Carnality shudder and tremble. When he leans forward again, it’s to suck the last, hanging drops of semen from Carnality’s tip, and swallow the thick seed in his mouth with a lavish gulp that makes his adam’s apple bob. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he says at length, voice hoarse and husky and for the sharpness of his words, not at all displeased.

Carnality huffs a ragged, voiceless chuckle. As soon as his breathing begins to settle, his cock sated and Anders pulling away, he crouches down and plants a kiss on that still salty-sweet mouth, tongue prying past teeth and for all the world interested in lapping himself up as much as actually kissing the mage. When he lifts his head away his hand reaches to cover the apprentice’s lingering erection, encircling the shaft and giving it a few firm and rhythmic jerks and dragging pulls. “He bred Dianna but doesn’t remember. Perhaps you should ask more questions.”

Anders groans. He leans against Carnality, one arm around the demon’s shoulders, hips pumping into the demon’s grip. “Ever heard the truism, 'Ignorance is bliss?’ Maybe I’m afraid of the answers… to some of this…” Warm breath puffs out through parted lips and Anders turns his head to press a kiss to the side of Carnality’s neck. “Oh gods, don’t stop…” Warm, clear wetness drips onto Carnality’s hand, and Anders’ thighs begin to tremble under him.

“Ignorance will leave you a simpleton.” Carnality turns his head, nuzzles to Anders’ temple, presses his lips to the man’s ear with a whisper, “What could you possibly be afraid of? I promise I won’t answer what you tell me not to.” The demon’s touch works upward, the shallow pistoning of his hand rising until the pads of his fingers ring just under the head, quick pulls upward as one finger arches and presses to the slit, and slides a slow grind against the groove in the tip. “Just tell me what you want to hear.”

Anders cries out, hips jerking hard and white seed spilling past that fingertip Carnality teases him with. For a moment he’s tense and shaking, jaw clenched, rigid fingers almost clawed into the demon’s shoulder. And then he eases, panting for breath just as hard as Carnality was a moment ago, chis arm shaking as he clings to him in an attempt to keep upright. “Who is he…” Anders rasps. “Where did he come from, what has been done to him… and how can I be any help to him at all…”

Carnality closes his sighing lips into a loose pucker and presses to Anders’ neck, his grip sinking back to firmly milk him empty. “Danarius hosted a contest amongst the top breeders, a test of the best fighting stock. When only one remained the elf was purchased for a large sum only to be taken into the laboratory the next day. Many considered the senator a fool for wasting his money until he displayed his new pet, lyrium burned into every vein and no memory of anything but his master. That dog would run itself to death, if Danarius asked him to.”

Anders feels as if the bottom of his stomach has dropped to the floor. He winces and he lets go of Carnality, falling onto his back on the cold floor and rolling onto his side, body half curled. "He would never… But he cares for…“ Anders stammers, breathless, a catch in his voice that seems brittle. "He would…” He pushes himself up on one arm, pulling at his clothes where they’re bundled low on his hips.

As Anders recovers himself Carnality remains close, the mess between them gone the moment Anders looks away, and he slings an arm around the apprentice’s shoulders, keeps him steady and helps gently pull up his clothes. The demon’s are, predictably, back in place as if his smalls had never been brushed aside. “You wanted to know who he was. The answer is that he is a ghost of someone who no longer exists.” With those words trailing off the demon cracks a large smile, solemn expression lost on that flawless face for something more suiting his kind, a horribly dark amusement. “They call him that, you know. The ghost.”

When Anders turns his face towards Carnality, he’s stricken. It’s too much to process. All he can think of is the pain, the loss, that Fenris embodies without even knowing it. The fact that he’s so adoringly subservient to the one who has done it all to him is sickening… but not as sickening as the fact that Anders has become that man’s accomplice, his apprentice, that he’s felt admiration and fondness as often as he’s felt fear or doubt towards his Master. “He doesn’t even know what he’s lost, to mourn it.”

Carnality’s smile hardly fades for Anders’ horror. “Ah, but there’s more. The best part is,” He pauses, then, leans in like it’s their little secret, and it is, his lips caressing Anders’ earlobe, “-he asked for it.”

Carnality chuckles through his nose, a smile gracing his lips. But he complies, arms sliding away from Anders’ front and wisping over his shoulders like two ribbons, only to rise up in an exaggerated shrug. The movement shows through the glass the apprentice works with, along with the smaller details of that perfect smile and white teeth. “If that were the case, either Danarius would be gone by now or I would have left in boredom. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes. Your assurances that you can be trusted are clearly worthy of being taken at face value, therefor.” The wryness is back in Anders’ voice. Yet even without the demon leaning against his back, his mind is now on anything but cleaning glass flasks. He turns away from the washbasins, shaking the water off his hands and eying the demon with scrutiny. “Though… you /have/ appeared to be awfully… friendly. At least you certainly suck dick like you mean it.”

Carnality smiles wider, dimpling his cheeks in pure amusement, backs up a couple feet until he can brace his hands behind him against the opposite table. He watches Anders with hungry eyes, though any observation would note that he looks at everyone that way. “That’s your evidence that I’m safe?” And then, quickly, eager, “Do you want me to?”

“What? No!” Anders splutters, drawing back until the small of his back hits the workbench’s edge. His pink cheeks are blushing redder, however. “No, and I’m -sure- you’re not safe, you bloody cock-tease!” His gaze slides down Carnality’s body, and then flits to the open door.

“I would have to say no to be a tease.” Carnality casts a glance over his shoulder to the door, his eyes rolling as he looks back to Anders. “Relax. It’s not hardly as fun if you don’t want it. Besides. There are others that entertain me well enough.”

“Then what are you bothering me for, you know how upset Fenris will be.” For a moment, Anders’ expression has a flat, inward look of self-directed annoyance. Even saying that name makes him want to sigh, which is nonsense. He was in bed with him just a couple hours ago, that isn’t long enough to miss someone. He wasn’t even this bad over Karl… and the memory of his former lover’s bearded face and kind eyes acts a handle on the door to whole chambers of pent up longings that flood to the forefront of his mind. Fenris’s arms around him, the look of content supremacy on Danarius’s face while his strong erection is tended in Carnality’s mouth, the compelling curiosity he was afraid to admit to, Fenris kissing him, Fenris’s thighs hugging his hips… Anders shakes his head to try and clear it, unable to help but look stricken.

“Upset Fenris?” The demon sounds genuinely surprised at that notion, and smirks his baffled look aside. “You don’t know very much about him then. In fact, you don’t know very much about this entire household, do you? What goes on, really, underneath what Danarius and Fenris want you to see. I could tell you. I could tell you lots of things you’d want to know.”

“I don’t see why I should trust your word over either of theirs.” Anders narrows his eyes, though. He considers the offer, even though he doesn’t want to. He knows he’s a fool to do so, yet he feels he would be a fool not to. “Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I just want to give in and be the Magister’s housepet and bed Fenris and live out my life in relative safety and freedom. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea, does it.”

“I suppose not, if you don’t mind being as simple as your peers think you are.” Carnality shrugs noncommittally. “They are rather petty themselves. But there are some things you would rather be aware of. Your pet elf does. Trust me, that is.”


	18. Chapter 18

Anders is at work in his laboratory, the door left open for now. All the previous days’ work has been flasked and stoppered and sits in a crate waiting for one of the servants to bring them to Danarius’s main lab. At the moment, Anders is mainly concerned with cleaning up and preparing for the next bit of alchemical work he wants to do. Two basins sit on the workbench side by side, one full of soapy water, the other for rinsing. A wooden rack sitting over a folded cloth already holds a number of drying beakers and tubes. The sleeves of Anders’ robes are rolled up past his elbows while he scrubs each piece of recently-used glassware.

Leaving the door open is like a prime invitation, really. Fenris strolls into the lab, casually, on silent feet and a confident stride. The rest of the hallway is generally quiet, the master lab door shut as usual recently but with no one mentioning why, if they know at all.  
Fenris slinks up behind the apprentice and slides his hands over the man’s shoulders, leaning forward and fingers trailing down the front of the robes until the elf’s chest presses to shoulderblades. “Well, if this doesn’t look entirely boring.”

Anders does look up, smiling at first at the sight of Fenris, but almost immediately he knows something is /off/ about the way he moves. And after that initial double-take, he can sense more off than only that. Posture stiff, he returns to doing his dishes. "You know this trick doesn’t work on mages. I take it you’re called Carnality?“

"It’s still fun.” The voice that comes out of Fenris’ mouth is no longer his, and while Carnality’s voice in and of itself is lovely, it carries something inhuman. Something subtle and fabricated, a manufactured honey. With a heavy sigh his height adjusts, taller, shedding the form as easily as changing clothes. “I wanted to properly introduce myself to the new apprentice.”

“Very well then, I’m Anders, how do you do.” The apprentice speaks dryly, without looking up from his work. “Huzzah, now I can cross ‘consorting with demons’ off my bucket list.” When Anders does steal a glance at Carnality it’s a wary one, and brief, as if what he sees is pleasing enough he dare not linger over it.

“Mmm?” Carnality doesn’t seem the least bit deterred. His breath against Anders’ skin isn’t hot, not like Fenris’ would be, or anyone else. The only real hint that it exists at all is the way it caresses the fine hairs at the back of the apprentice’s neck. Every last movement glides smoothly, a trained and careful motion, the way he raises his arms with hands dragging loosely over Anders’ clothes until they cross at the wrists just below the base of his neck, an extravagant collar that keeps well out of the way of his work. “So you haven’t met another, then? What have you been told, I wonder.”

Every breath on his neck stirs up memories of the night before, and Anders’ cheeks flush with pink. “That your kind will stop at nothing to influence and possess mages, so that you may have a foothold in this world.” His answer is forthright, and his voice no longer carries that wry tone, but turns outright cold. “Stop touching me. If you have business with me state it and be done.” 

Carnality chuckles through his nose, a smile gracing his lips. But he complies, arms sliding away from Anders’ front and wisping over his shoulders like two ribbons, only to rise up in an exaggerated shrug. The movement shows through the glass the apprentice works with, along with the smaller details of that perfect smile and white teeth. “If that were the case, either Danarius would be gone by now or I would have left in boredom. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes. Your assurances that you can be trusted are clearly worthy of being taken at face value, therefor.” The wryness is back in Anders’ voice. Yet even without the demon leaning against his back, his mind is now on anything but cleaning glass flasks. He turns away from the washbasins, shaking the water off his hands and eying the demon with scrutiny. “Though… you /have/ appeared to be awfully… friendly. At least you certainly suck dick like you mean it.”

Carnality smiles wider, dimpling his cheeks in pure amusement, backs up a couple feet until he can brace his hands behind him against the opposite table. He watches Anders with hungry eyes, though any observation would note that he looks at everyone that way. “That’s your evidence that I’m safe?” And then, quickly, eager, “Do you want me to?”

“What? No!” Anders splutters, drawing back until the small of his back hits the workbench’s edge. His pink cheeks are blushing redder, however. “No, and I’m -sure- you’re not safe, you bloody cock-tease!” His gaze slides down Carnality’s body, and then flits to the open door.

“I would have to say no to be a tease.” Carnality casts a glance over his shoulder to the door, his eyes rolling as he looks back to Anders. “Relax. It’s not hardly as fun if you don’t want it. Besides. There are others that entertain me well enough.”

“Then what are you bothering me for, you know how upset Fenris will be.” For a moment, Anders’ expression has a flat, inward look of self-directed annoyance. Even saying that name makes him want to sigh, which is nonsense. He was in bed with him just a couple hours ago, that isn’t long enough to miss someone. He wasn’t even this bad over Karl… and the memory of his former lover’s bearded face and kind eyes acts a handle on the door to whole chambers of pent up longings that flood to the forefront of his mind. Fenris’s arms around him, the look of content supremacy on Danarius’s face while his strong erection is tended in Carnality’s mouth, the compelling curiosity he was afraid to admit to, Fenris kissing him, Fenris’s thighs hugging his hips… Anders shakes his head to try and clear it, unable to help but look stricken.

“Upset Fenris?” The demon sounds genuinely surprised at that notion, and smirks his baffled look aside. “You don’t know very much about him then. In fact, you don’t know very much about this entire household, do you? What goes on, really, underneath what Danarius and Fenris want you to see. I could tell you. I could tell you lots of things you’d want to know.”

“I don’t see why I should trust your word over either of theirs.” Anders narrows his eyes, though. He considers the offer, even though he doesn’t want to. He knows he’s a fool to do so, yet he feels he would be a fool not to. “Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I just want to give in and be the Magister’s housepet and bed Fenris and live out my life in relative safety and freedom. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea, does it.”

“I suppose not, if you don’t mind being as simple as your peers think you are.” Carnality shrugs noncommittally. “They are rather petty themselves. But there are some things you would rather be aware of. Your pet elf does. Trust me, that is.”


	19. Chapter 19

The evening sun has come and passed at the mansion, vibrant orange rays casting in through all the windows and setting the white stone building aflame with light. But the moments are short lived, fiery glow doused with reds then purples as the night sets in, finally blackness save the blue-toned mage lights that spark to life along the walls. Dinner was a lonely affair, Fenris and Danarius absent and still locked away in the laboratory, and lonelier still hours after Fenris is still absent his room.  
Later still the elf quietly pulls open the door to the apprentice’s room, freshly washed and in nothing but a pair of black smalls that hug his waist. His silhouette pauses in the lit doorway, still debating being so forward, half expecting no one or someone else at his place in the bed.

 

Anders looks up when he hears the latch. He’s sitting up in bed, the covers around his waist, and he regards Fenris with weary, wakeful eyes. He doesn’t smile. His gaze is scrutinizing, even grim, as if he sees things in Fenris’s composed neutrality that he hadn’t recognized before. He doesn’t speak, but rolls back the covers on the other side of the bed in invitation.

Fenris lingers in place, a glint from the hallway light in his eyes, flickering as he glances over Anders’ expression even in the dim light. Finally he pulls the door to behind him, gaze tipping to the floor as he joins Anders and sinks to his side, dropping to his stomach and burying his face against one of the large white pillows. Surely he can’t stay like that, bed threatening to suffocate him, but he certainly looks willing to try.

Anders’ hand comes to rest on Fenris’s hair, fingers combing through the silken disarray. He isn’t certain what to say, or if it would be wiser to just abandon the thoughts that have been keeping him awake. No, he’s certain it would be wiser not to go where Carnality’s revelations have pointed him. “Carnality says the other slaves call you ‘the Ghost.’ Because you lived another life that was taken from you.”

Fenris turns then, rolling to his side so he can look up past Anders’ hand, eyes narrowed with wary surprise. His gaze falls to nothing in particular as his brow softens, sorting his thoughts with a small sigh. “Maybe they do. But it was the wild slaves that gave me that name, and it was for a different reason.”

Anders brushes his knuckles, then his fingertips, along Fenris’s cheek and jaw. The solemn look on his face crumbles away, leaving tenderness and concern. “What reason, then?” He asks, but he suspects he knows some of it now. He remembers what Carnality said about how many other slaves Fenris has cut down.

“I…” But how to really explain it properly without simply showing, and Fenris stretches his shoulders as he pushes himself upright, movements weary and a bit sluggish now that his body has found a bed. “The name is apt.” His arm raises once he sits up, pointedly somewhat away from Anders, and with a brilliant blue flash of sparks along his veins his arm alights and begins to vanish, only a faint echo of it where his body should be.

“Fenris…” There’s awe in Anders’ voice, and fascination. He reaches out towards that spectral mirage, but he stops short of trying to touch. “What does it feel like, when you do that?”

Fenris flinches his hand back the moment Anders reaches for it, the blue glow lighting the room dying with another small flash, the elf’s hand back in place. With a flex of his palm, fingers stretched wide then closed to a tight fist, he drops it back to his side. “Like when your arm falls asleep, at first. Then nothing, but it aches at the edges. That.. never goes away.”

Anders shakes his head, mystified. “And this is what Danarius intended to accomplish with his experiment, or is it just some side effect? What he’s doing now, is it a continuation of what he’s already done, with you?”

“It is as he intended, yes. But he feels no need to repeat this work, and none of his peers find it worth the risk to replicate. Does it bother you?”

Anders considers for a moment, but at length, he gives a stiff nod. “It bothers me that you could have died. That he could have killed you.”

Fenris hardly looks as bothered by this fact, tips his head ever so slightly to one side, and when he blinks it’s almost owlishly, wide and perplexed. “He chose me because he had faith that I /would/ survive.” As if that were enough of an answer he drops back, body too exhaustingly heavy, eyes slowly closing as he sinks into the pillow again, but then he looks up to add quietly, “If I had it would have been my failing, not his.”

Anders is incredulous. He opens his mouth to retort but then he shuts it again. What good will it do to tell Fenris how absurd his belief is? And he’s at least as tired as the elf, and an argument is the last thing he wants. He sinks into bed, shifting to move closer to Fenris’s side. “The thought of you coming to harm bothers me, regardless,” he sighs.

“It was years ago, before you knew I even existed.” The elf’s words are soft, comforting, and of course carry an edge that he thinks Anders is as ridiculous as the apprentice feels he is. For a moment they remain in silence, the rise of Fenris’ breath slowing in his chest. After the all too short seconds of peace between them the slave turns, a slow bodily flinch. He nuzzles against Anders’ shoulder, trying to find some sort of better position, buries his face and an ear between the warm skin and cool pillow. But it’s not good enough, one side of his face still to the open air, and he grumbles incoherently as he paws blindly for Anders’ hand to place it over his ear.

He should be more unsettled than he is. But Fenris is in his arms, nuzzling into his shoulder, and everything else in Anders’ mind goes quiet. He lets Fenris take his wrist, and he cups his hand over Fenris’s exposed ear as the elf seems to want, a small, throaty laugh in his chest at the grouchy sweetness of the gesture. “I love you.” The words slip out of their own accord, Anders blushing violently when he realizes not only what he’s said, but that it’s true.

Fenris stops, utterly forgetting whatever it was that was bothering him so, pulling his face away from Anders’ shoulder and lifting his hand off by a few inches to rest along his neck. “…why?”

“I… don’t really know why. I just do. The way I feel when you’re here…” Anders sighs and shakes his head, a small, self-deprecating smile on his lips. “More of my nonsense, I suppose. I know it is, yet I can’t help myself.”

Fenris doesn’t immediately answer but seems satisfied enough by Anders’ words, and when he settles back into place it’s somehow more relaxed, close just to be so instead of trying to escape from something. But he pauses, before shoving the man’s hand back in place. “You could have chosen a better time to mention it.”

“When would you like me to mention it, then?” There’s nothing defensive in Anders’ tone of voice, just solicitous curiosity. Anders slips an arm around Fenris’s waist and holds him, not desperately tight, but tender and close. “It just slipped out. You seemed like you needed to be held and by the Maker, I wanted to be the one to hold you… If it wasn’t obvious by now, you’re welcome in this bed, whenever you want to be here. Welcome and wanted.”

Fenris practically waves his hand, though he stops himself short when he realizes he’s still holding one of Anders’ wrists. “No, that’s not it, I just-” His words cut abruptly, his head tipping back to look into Anders’ eyes, scrutinizing them critically for a moment, and when realization dawns on him it’s in full view. “…you can’t hear it, can you.”

“Hear what?” Anders looks perplexed, and then understanding dawns. “Oh, gods, Fenris…” His voice drops to a hoarse whisper. He pulls his wrist out of Fenris’s grasp, but only to block his ear with his whole arm, pulling him in tight against the crook of his neck and doing what he can to wrap Fenris in a bubble of warmth and silence.

Some small part of the slave had kept his muscles tightened, subtly, in a way he doesn’t even realize until Anders covers his ears completely and with a sigh his shoulders fall limp and his neck sinks the weight of his forehead to the apprentice’s collar. He can’t imagine what Anders thinks he hears, there’s all manner of things he would rather not listen to when trying to sleep, but he doesn’t offer what it is, either. “Thank you.”

Anders closes his eyes, resting his cheek against Fenris’s brow. He says nothing; just holds Fenris and breathes slow and deep.


	20. Chapter 20

Fenris does as he’s told. Anders never sees a hair of the slave during the day, and this time the elf knows the apprentice’s general habits enough to avoid him without making it look terribly obvious. Danarius either hasn’t noticed or simply has the tact to not mention it yet, and the lessons carry as usual.  
Only later, far into the afternoon, with Anders hard at work with a new assignment to busy his mind and Danarius secluded away in his study does the elf show himself without specific orders.  
The study is bright, perhaps even cheerful, afternoon sun warming the room as much as lighting it, the caged birds chirping quietly as they flit between branches, but Fenris’ eyes are cast to none of it, instead along the ornate rug at his feet.

 

Danarius is enjoying a heavy, leatherbound volume that arrived today, a brand new journal of research from the college of magi. The binding is still so fresh that it creaks a bit, and the pages are fine and crisp as Danarius flips through lengthy synopses of new experiments and findings. To some it might seem an odd way to relax, but he finds it refreshing and invigorating to lose himself, for a while, in work that isn’t his.  
The magister doesn’t raise his head immediately when he hears Fenris enter the room. He recognizes the elf’s almost silent footfalls without even a thought, now. He finishes the paragraph he’s reading, and marks his place with a ribbon. “You are welcome, my pet. Come here, let me look at you.”

Fenris shuts the door behind him with some small urgency, the click of the lock no louder than usual but the slave wanting his exposure to the hall no longer than necessary. He slinks forward, eyes still downcast and barely looking up. Somewhere along the day his sword was abandoned, likely set to in his room before coming here, and the absence eases his movements as Fenris drops to his knees at Danarius’ side, forehead propping to the side of the man’s waist and arm drawn across his lap.

Danarius sets his book aside. He leans back against the plush, tufted upholstery and gazes down at the white-haired head submissively nestled in the crook of his waist. He reaches down to drag his long nails through Fenris’s hair and along the creases at the backs of his ears. He knows Fenris well enough to recognize the tacit offer in his posture, and as he lifts his slave’s chin, he spreads his knees. 

Fenris’ arm draws in, the movement blind but confident as his hand hooks along and dips under a seam of the man’s robe to a hidden trail of buttons. As he fingers each open, a small set of tugs as he pulls the button forward, pushes it through and sets the fabric farther apart, he leans his head to Danarius’ hand, nuzzling the palm absently at first, then drawing kisses up one knuckle to the pad of the man’s thumb. Finally his mouth slips over the digit, eyes closing as he sucks firmly, his tongue swirling over the pad and his own erection beginning to press against the leggings that cling to his thighs.

Danarius crooks his thumb gently against Fenris’s warm tongue. He settles his lidded gaze on the way Fenris’s lips curve around the intruding digit, their plump sensuality and brazen promise, and he can feel his cock twitch and stir under his robes. “My little pet is craving some cream, I see,” he purrs. “Master will indulge you, but you must promise to be tidy, yes? You must not spill a single drop.” His his thumb sunk into Fenris’s mouth, he curls his fingers under his slave’s chin, lifting his face to coax him to meet his Master’s gaze.

Deep moss green eyes flicker open and glance up with the request, partly obscured by a few stray white strands of hair but no less clear for it, attentive though something a bit solemn lingers behind them. For a few lingering moments he keeps his eyes locked upwards, tongue circling the thumb as he licks his lips with a thin shining layer of saliva, glazing details of his pout as his lips travel down to the man’s knuckle, suction pulling his finger farther in. Once his hand reaches the bottom edge, the last of the buttons free, Fenris pulls aside Danarius’ robes to reveal finely crafted black silk pants. His palm presses flat and cups, low on the bulge between the man’s legs, carefully rocks the heel of his palm upward with the softest squeeze before sinking back down to start again.

Danarius lets his pleasure show on his face only subtly, an indulgent lowering of his eyelids, a deep breath that could almost be a sigh. His balls are heavy, firm, and full in Fenris’s cupped hand, and his half-hard cock swells and stirs as if to nuzzle into that lightly calloused palm. “Exquisite pet,” he murmurs, bringing his other hand to Fenris’s hair, combing it back from his face so he can watch every nuance of his expression. “That’s it, lovely, take your time… Master will give you plenty in the end…”

On the next roll upwards Fenris hooks his fingers to the edge of Danarius’ pants, pulls them down enough to free his cock and cradle his balls along the hem, a thumb on either side dragging them a bit farther down his hips. The slack is enough for the sack to hang free from the shaft while still lifted up, presented. Fenris slips his lips off of Danarius’ finger, lifts his chin from the man’s clutch carefully, to situate himself between his master’s legs, elbow firmly planting to the couch at either side of his hips. He leans in, gentle as he nuzzles his forehead and bridge of his nose along the underbelly of the shaft, leaning forward until the back of Danarius’ cock is laid along is stomach, just enough that he can put pressure into the nuzzling, before he dips his chin. He kisses at his master’s balls, one and then the other with the same careful reverence a man might kiss the back of a woman’s knuckles with, and as his lust grows he follows with his lips, toying with the loose skin of one, kisses more open and lower until he takes part of one weighty orb into his mouth and lightly sucks at the lower half of it.

The skin of Danarius’s sack is soft, molding to the pressure of any touch almost like moist clay. Fenris’s gentle sucking makes him feel the weight of his own testes, the fullness inside them, a virility he savors as his thoughts already caress the image of his cream flooding Fenris’s perfect mouth. His erection is solid and strong, bobbing slightly from its own weight, from the eager twinges of pleasure at its root from the feeling of Fenris’s tongue laving his sack with warm saliva. “Such an eager little glutton… You see how much I have to give you, yes? So much, and you will take every drop and lap it from my tip like a hungry kitten suckling at its mother’s swollen teat.”

Fenris closes his lips, lets the orb slip from his mouth and settle back in place, then begins to do the same to the other, pulling it into his mouth. He brings it further, gently pulls past his lips, spreads the skin taught to swirl his tongue over the round surface then lick at the curve of it, pleading for its contents and proving Danarius’ words. Reluctantly he loosens his hold, lets his lips widen as the overfull ball slips from his mouth and sinks closer to the shaft and he follows, lightly nosing the cock up to kiss the hilt of it. His tongue darts out to trace the crease between the raised sack and member, then draws up to kiss the tighter skin again, and again higher, head tilted as he draws up the fat underbelly, lips pursed to hug either side of the throat, brows knit with his tightly controlled lust.

Danarius lets a muted moan slip from his throat. Fenris has been well-trained, but his eagerness, his -earnestness- gives his attentions a quality that even the practiced touch of Carnality can’t fully mimic. He rests both hands on Fenris’s head, urging him on with gentle pressure and shifting his hips forward on the couch. The way Fenris’s lips slide along the throat of his erection, the magister imagines that even the idolaters of ancient Tevinter could have learned something of worship from his slave. The rosy lips of his slit puff and swell, flexing open with the first thick drops of his precum. At that, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, Danarius grips Fenris’s hair tight. He moves one hand to the base of his shaft and rubs his tip across Fenris’s lips, glazing them with clear wetness. “A boon for you, my skilled little pet. A taste of nectar, a kiss from my staff.”

Fenris parts his mouth, lets it fall open, a thin line of his white teeth just barely visible as he looks up, focused intently on Danarius’ gaze as he carefully licks the inner edge of his bottom lip, closing his jaw as he tastes it and swallows without marring the gloss across his lips. His eyes fall back down from Danarius’ expression, down the fine splayed robes to the thick arousal, and with a pouting pucker of his lips he kisses the cockhead just below the slit. He remains in place, lets the weight of the erection pillow his lips, parts them and cradles it to his tongue. With a quick dip away, not enough to pull from Danarius’ grip of his hair, he shies from the shaft. It hangs heavily in the air without him, very faintly bobbing with the rush of blood swelling it, and when he draws closer it’s to lap his tongue relentlessly at the slip of skin tethering tip to shaft.

“/Lovely/, pet…” Danarius speaks with a purring rumble in his smooth voice, and with his upper lip curled to show the point of his canine. A fat, heavy drop of precum rolls from his slit to the loose raph of skin Fenris’s tongue worries at, a tease so relentlessly exquisite that his tip swells until it’s nearly rock hard, the taut skin darkening like a bruise. He can feel his own pulse throbbing in the veins of his shaft, in the hidden root of his cock and in his heavy, hanging balls. His grip eases on Fenris’s hair, long, tapered nails combing across his scalp in gentler encouragement. "My Fenris, so /very/ skilled.“

The elf stops licking, a brief pause as he tastes the fresh arousal dripping from Danarius’ erection, and carefully, slowly, he lays his tongue flat along the skin, presses it close, and trails upward to lick every last hint of that taste from the man’s cock. When he passes over the slit he closes his mouth, swallows with a glance upward, then forward again to kiss it, slip his lips on the tip until the bottom pillows against the frenum and the top presses along the flaring curve without popping past it. Fenris’ tongue glides along the slit, swirling broadly across it then pointing to a fine tip, probing the edges and dipping in with a worrying tickle.

Keeping his breathing steady and measured is an act of will on Danarius’s part. He can feel tension in the tendons of his spread thighs, and his sack grows tight, his balls lifting up against the base of his shaft. He still debates a moment, while Fenris’s tongue works at his tip, whether to make his slave work a little longer or give in and indulge them both. His gaze settles on the way Fenris’s lip fits against the curved flare of his tip, and he feels his pleasure slip past the crest in a rushing, delicious surge. The throat of his cock bulges with the torrents of cream that flood Fenris’s mouth, each pulse pushing past his teasing tongue. And Danarius exhales almost silently, the tension he kept so well concealed easing out of him with every throb of orgasm.

Fenris groans as the cock flexes and spills cum into his mouth, a sound of pleasure as much as the soft personal frustration from his own cock still trapped tight against his leggings. He straightens, lips not moving from their position as he raises both hands to secure the base, loosely hugging and fingertips entwining together, and he begins to suck. Diligently but not constant, a quick flutter of his tongue, a greedy suckling that bobs the shaft as much as the orgasm. As the spasms begin to subside a palm rises and tightens to the erection, grinding as he pumps and milks Danarius dry, mouth dipping farther, thirsty for his master’s appreciation.

Danarius leans back into the couch, eyelids fluttering as his jaw drops. He moans out loud. Fenris has a tight grip when he starts to forget himself this way. Danarius would chastise him for being careless, if not for how much he loves the way it betrays how badly the slave craves this. He reaches down, cupping his own balls, giving them a careful squeeze to coax a final, thick spurt onto Fenris’s tongue. After that, his seed still comes in a sluggish trickle as his cock twitches and starts to soften in Fenris’s grip. ”…/Lovely/.“

The slave immediately releases his grip, as soon as he remembers himself and the erection in his hands begins to falter. But he remains in place, touch light again, until the last drops ease out, and with a final firm suck he curls his lips farther along his teeth and pulls his mouth from the man’s cock with as much saliva as he can wipe away with himself. Only after carefully pulling Danarius’ clothes back into place, each button set as if it were never pulled open, does he curl up at his master’s side on the couch, head propped in the man’s lap, his own cock aching and obediently untouched.

Danarius runs one hand along Fenris’s arm, the tips of his nails just barely ghosting along his skin. His light touch skims over the taut leather stretched over Fenris’s hip, and then his groin, tracing the shamefully obvious bulge in the slave’s leggings. "You may tell me what happened,” Danarius says smoothly, the crisp edges of his words soften with a hint of a pleasured slur.

Fenris’ mouth parts with a heavier breath, a tip of his legs to move his thighs farther apart without moving an inch forward, silently begging, his forehead turning closer against the robed hip. But it isn’t the tiny promises of pleasure that choke him. After a few lingering moments he croaks out softly, “He doesn’t want me.”

“Odd,” Danarius answers. That catch in Fenris’s voice, however, stills his hand, and he looks down at Fenris with some weary tenderness. “I would not have concluded that, from the lad’s dismal manner and red-rimmed eyes. He is at least rather submissive when he’s out of sorts, but otherwise he is -quite- unfit for polite company.”

The next words carry an even longer pause, a distinct hesitation as Fenris carefully chooses his words, wanting to tell Danarius every last details of the morning’s events but not wanting the responsibility should Danarius choose harsh action over throwing out yet another apprentice. “He.. spoke ill of you. He said you didn’t love me.”

Danarius gives Fenris a sharp look. He studies the slave’s face, and his own grows slowly colder. “Tell me everything he said,” the magister commands.

Fenris turns his head at that, looking up at Danarius and as startled of his tone as he was expecting it, and gulping as his gaze falls again, ordering his thoughts and words carefully despite his position. “He claimed to know my worth more than you do. That I am ultimately unhappy and suffering under your orders, and that my life falls to the same value as any master.” The elf flinches with his words, half expecting punishment just for uttering such offensive nonsense, and quickly adds, “When I didn’t bend to his ideas, he ended it.” The ideas weren’t entirely new. Over the years quite a number of wild slaves had been in the lab, begging to the only other one like them in the room, and Fenris had ignored the lot of it. Only now, coming from an apprentice, did it shake him.

Danarius’s lip curls in disgust. He pulls away from Fenris and rises to his feet, pacing while he straightens his robes. “Typical barbarian foolishness, does he think I pursue my research simply for the sake of my own vanity? Accusing me of controlling you while attempting to bridle you with his own heavy-handed southern prejudice… Come, Fenris.” Danarius snatches up his staff, the butt of it ringing against the floor as he stamps it down with every long stride he takes. He wrenches the door open and sweeps from the room.

“Master-” Fenris is up before he finishes his words, tone half startled, half obedient and an edge of questioning concern. Whatever the man’s intentions his guard follows him out of the room, completely in step just behind his Master. The moment they leave the study, the elf’s hand on the door and closing it behind them without faltering, his emotions vanish, posture straightening and expression cold steel. The apprentice lab is only across the hall, but in that short span he turns his head to catch Dianna’s gaze as she steps into the hall from the stairs, the intensity in his eyes enough that she silently turns to flee back around the corner before Danarius notices her.

Danarius flings open the door to the apprentice study. Anders is leaning over a pair of open tomes , raising his head in surprise when Danarius enters, with Fenris at his side. “I have a question for you, Anders.”  
“Is something wrong?” Of course something is wrong. Danarius wears cold fury on his face, and Fenris is standing beside him the same way he was when he first laid eyes on the two. Anders looks almost incredulous as he looks Fenris in the eyes, wanting to find something there to tell him this isn’t what it looks like, what he thinks it is.  
“I believe you know the answer to that. But I do wish to know, boy, what I have done to you that you would speak ill of me under my own roof. Perhaps I am old and my memory fails me, but as I recall… I have fed you and clothed you, taken you into my household, and elevated you to a station most would envy! I have been patient with your eccentricities, your barbarian prejudice, but now, to know you have sought to turn my beloved Fenris against me?”  
Anders stammers, the color draining from his face. “Master, I… I didn’t mean…”  
“Didn’t mean to? Then you should have a care what you say! You strike at my very heart, you threaten the peace of my household!”  
“Forgive me, Master, it will never happen again, I wa–”  
“No, boy. No. I cannot be lenient in this matter, I cannot be seen by my own household to be contending with any other for authority. That authority IS the sanctuary this place offers, it is the foundation I require to do my work in the service of the Imperium. For this you shall be punished, Anders.” Danarius speaks gravely. 

For the first time Fenris begins to falter at his master’s side, familiar with Danarius’ tone and now quietly afraid of it when he never was before. While he remained remote at Anders’ initial gaze now his own breaks into movement, away from the icy expression he’d kept leveled on the apprentice and glancing towards Danarius, desperately trying to read anything from the man’s eyes while staying out of his attention. He finds nothing there, nothing of use beyond an anger that has killed. Fenris’ eyes fall, passing Anders and averting to the floor, solemn and deeply uncomfortable, his body wincing and reluctant to follow suit with what his mind wants to do. “Master…” He has no idea what to say. Really, he doesn’t need to. The word carries some of the emotion barely escaping him, concerned and nervous.

“Strip him, Fenris.” Danarius keeps his cold gaze on Anders. “If you are truly contrite, I advise you to cooperate. Do not force my hand any further, boy.”  
Anders stands still, eyes wide in shock. He puts up no resistance, at first, too stunned to do anything but stand there, and then realizing the force behind Danarius’s words, feeling the magister gather his will and feeling the fury in his power, like the heat of a flame licking at his face.  
“You will not speak to my servants, least of all to Fenris. Not only within the duration of your punishment, but until I grant you permission to do so. If I discover you have disobeyed me, your punishment will be lengthened. And if I discover you have again spoken seditious words within my household, you shall be flogged. During your punishment I urge you to contemplate the error you have made and to set aside the prejudice that engendered it. And when your punishment is concluded, we shall have words.”

Fenris does as he’s told, falls silent and emotions freezing the moment he moves into his master’s view. But as Danarius makes clear the man’s sentence he gets ever colder, flashing the icy glare on Anders’ gaze as he reaches forward, all gentle movements lost as he tugs open the apprentice’s clothes, rough as he knows all too well how to strip the man and wanting to be done with it. The belts at his waist that thud to the floor, the robes after them only making a slightly quieter sound for all the weight to them, finely made but buttons farther apart than Danarius’ and easier to pull free.

Anders stands rigid while Fenris strips him, as if frozen to the spot. Danarius can see the fear in his eyes, but it doesn’t soften his rage. Instead, it adds a twinge of contempt. It was right for Anders to show fear, but Danarius found himself frustrated and disappointed at how easily the apprentice showed it. Was it his treatment at the hands of the Templars in the southern kingdoms? Or was the man just weak? Or, perhaps worse, had his transgression truly been thoughtlessly done, like a child acting out? He frowns, looking on while Anders lets Fenris tug off his boots, and steps out of his smalls. “Gag him, Fenris.”

The guard doesn’t so much as look up at the command, pauses for only a moment before he reaches out, presses a foot to the dropped bundle of clothes to pull the belts from it. The smaller of the two he loops over the apprentice’s head. Fenris reaches up to grip Anders’ chin, thumb forcing past lips and then past teeth just as easily, jams his thumb forward then down, and shoves the belt in place. He locks it tight behind the blond hair, strands catching and pulling in the buckle without sympathy, then his wrists yanked behind him one after the other, belted painfully tight and locking the buckle where it already digs into skin. Only then does Fenris look up, awaiting orders and catching the belt at Anders’ wrists.

“Take him to the post in the Slave mess hall and chain him there. Tell the rest of the household he will be given water twice a day, and he will be given no blankets or food. He is to remain gagged unless he is being watered, and if he speaks to anyone, they are to report it to me. If he attempts magic, administer magebane. I shall decide when I am satisfied with his punishment. Return to me when you are done – I have no wish to look at his face any longer.” Danarius turns, almost scowling as he stalks from the room, leaving Anders bound, gagged, and in Fenris’s care.

Fenris remains without so much as a confirmation, silent until his master leaves and another door in the hall closing behind him. When the air is finally quiet again, calming and cooling without Danarius, Fenris gives Anders a sharp shove forward to start walking, past his work and the pile of clothes and past the door of his lab. As they turn the shirt corner to the stairs Dianna is still there, visibly shocked, only barely having the sense to step out of the way. With Anders gagged she looks to Fenris, full of questions, but he only offers a curt, “You heard him.” as he forces the apprentice past. No other slaves get in their way, all giving Fenris a wide berth if they remain at all as he passes through, though all their eyes are on the guard and the stripped apprentice.  
The areas of the mansion intended for slaves are far less luxurious, bare floors unpolished and basic, no decoration on the walls and any windows in the form of thin slats carved into the stone and no glass to cover them, more to let air and light in than see out of. The mess hall seems like a small version of an old Circle’s hall, simple long tables and simple long benches, near the back of the kitchen and no windows at all, and a few slaves milling about there or picking at a late meal.  
They all leave as the two come to a stop at a thick metal post, take their food and talk elsewhere, too familiar with the usually unused place in the corner to stick around, and only begin to drift back into place well after Fenris is gone. But even then, not one of them makes eye contact.


	21. Chapter 21

A miniature army’s worth of slaves file through the mess hall, scattered throughout the day and into the night as their work shifts allow. All of them are elves, and all of them are fine examples of their race, each surely hand picked by Danarius though his collection remains unseen most days. Vibrantly blue, purple, smoky grey eyes watch the apprentice chained to the edge of the room, and even at the busiest moments they keep to themselves, eager to eat and leave the presence of the mage before they relax, basic utensils clattering against wooden bowls and small mutterings amongst each other.  
The next morning at breakfast they become somewhat more relaxed, one deciding to ignore the apprentice entirely and quickly followed by others, idle gossip about something another slave did a few houses down, fifty lashes for using the master’s money to buy something, or was it only twenty, and what was bought anyway, but it all comes to a halt again as Fenris enters the room. The elf is gruff with his charge to say the least, never gives Anders a moment to even try talking, hand firmly on his jaw and cup to his lips and then leather back in place and shoved back to the pole.  
Two nights pass like this.  
On the third, well after Fenris has come and gone for the night, after the other slaves have had dinner and only stragglers now, something happens in the hall beyond the doors. Two men, at least one sounding horribly drunk, a woman chiding them over something, words muffled. The door opens as Dianna finishes her sentence, a “-won’t /dare/, Lehran.” and she closes the door on the two that had been following her. Hands brushing at the legs of her clothes she quickly steps across the room into the kitchen, is gone a few moments, only to return with a soup bowl. When she crouches and folds her legs under her at Anders’ side none of the other few lingering slaves seem to notice or care, and she sets the bowl down to reach back behind Anders’ head. “Here, let’s get that awful thing off of you.”

For that first day, Anders had sat, stiff and still, with his back to the room. But as the slaves had begun to relax and grow used to his presence, Anders’ boredom had grown and he had begun to become jaded to humiliation. He had begun to watch the slaves, their comings and goings. He challenged himself to learn all their names, to listen to them speaking in trade and in arcanum, and more than once their jokes had made him chuckle behind his gag. When Fenris came to water him, though, his shame and anger burned hot and fresh all over again. He stared into Fenris’s eyes with utter fury on the first night. And then stony reprehension on the second. And then on third he had tried to plumb the depths of those mossy eyes and see if there was anything there, any feelings for him at all.  
Whenever Dianna is in the room, though, Anders looks away. For the other slaves, all strangers, to see him this way seems almost tolerable, compared to having to face somebody he knows. He’s filthy. Even sitting here in his own stench for days hasn’t numbed him to the smell, so he can only imagine how much worse it must be for her when she approaches. His eyes are on the hem of her skirt, but when she sits beside him he raises his head in shock. He tries to pull away from her hand, his eyes wide and pleading as he shakes his head. She could be punished for this. Yet his hollow stomach churns at the smell of food.

“Shh, stop.” Dianna lightly catches at the loosely hanging section of belt behind Anders’ head, waits for him to quit fidgeting before she moves her hand closer to undo the buckle and slip the restraint away from his mouth. She sets it aside to pick up the bowl, filled with thick broth and some meager chunks of tough leftover meat from the kitchen, none of it a perfectly decent meal but certainly better than nothing. A large ladle is lifted to Anders’ lips, bowl held under. “I know it’s going to be hard, but go slow or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Anders holds still when it becomes clear she won’t be dissuaded. The look in his eyes is utter, stunned disbelief. However plain it might be, the soup smells savory and enticing and Anders’ mouth waters. He bows his head, sipping from the ladle, wincing when his empty stomach tightens and threatens to cramp as badly as it does when Fenris forces him to drink. The edges of his eyes feel itchy and hot but Anders fights to hold some amount of composure. He takes another sip, head down, at length managing to rasp the words, “Thank you.”

Dianna shakes her head, dips and refills the spoon and picking out some meat once the initial pain of starvation burns way to hunger. “We’ve all been here at some point or another. Danarius rarely sees fit to come down here himself, and Fenris never lingers.” Her tone is completely different, far less formal than she’s ever been when at her post near the door, that she considers him closer to one of them now that he’s suffering the way they have, the way a normal apprentice never would. “Tell me what happened?”

“I trusted Fenris further than I should have,” Anders answers, his voice low. “I… there were things I said to him and he took them as me speaking against our Master. So he told Danarius. I’m lucky I wasn’t killed on the spot.” Anders sips from the ladle again, slurping a bit now that his stomach has started to ease. “I’m forbidden to speak to any of the slaves. I’ll probably end up being beaten for this either way, so if anyone tries to tattle on you, lay the blame on me. You’re… too kind by far as it is.” If he had the vitality, if he weren’t starved and bone-weary, Anders knows he would be blushing.

That response earns him a quiet chuckle. Dianna remains quiet for a few long moments, amused smile on her face but wanting to at least get a couple more spoonfuls into the apprentice before demanding he talk. Or just drinking in the idea of her being some damsel coming to nurture some poor soul to her own grave personal danger. The idea nearly sends her laughing. “You think we’re all like him, running to Danarius the moment someone does wrong?” But her words quiet her mood, smile fading. “Fenris means well. He does. But he’s stupid. Anything you tell him you tell Danarius, regardless of what Fenris wants.”

“Does he?” Anders nearly scoffs at the idea of Fenris having good intentions. “I don’t know which would be worse, if he did this because he hates me or if he really believes he had no choice.” He sighs, but he slurps down another ladle of soup, this time with gusto. He licks his lips with deliberately exaggerated thoroughness, trying to get a few splatters of broth off his cheeks and chin and looking ridiculous in the process. “And no, I don’t think you’re all like him. I didn’t even think he was really like that, but we see where that got me. But you… the demon told me you knew Fenris before the… experiment.”

“If you say he thinks you spoke against Danarius, then I would imagine somewhat of both.” Her brow furrows as she pauses on the demon’s words. “Know would be.. a strong word. He was in a different household at the time, still with his breeder.”

“He told me you had a child by him.” Anders lowers his voice and his face. “What was he like, then? Happier? He’s stoic now at the best of times, and sometimes his eyes seem so sad…” Anders’s brow furrows and he looks both incredulous and annoyed with himself. Why should he even -care- how Fenris feels, now? Why should that sadness matter? “Forgive me, that was a stupid question. It’s not as though I can do anything about it. It’s not as though I’m even sure I care anymore.”

This time when Dianna goes quiet the reason is clear, her surprise washing over her face before she looks down in embarrassment. “Ah.. you must have misunderstood, or he lied. They certainly tried, but it never took. He was… like any of us. And a bit arrogant. But he was someone else entirely. Leto died during the experiment.”

For a moment Anders frowns in grim concern. But when he raises his head there’s a dim twinkle of mischief in his eye. “I hope he was fun for you at least. It’s not a bad image at all…”

Dianna pauses, blinks, and then rushes her hand to her mouth as he fights outright laughter. Instead she hisses a chuckle while rolling her eyes. “Chained up to a post and that’s what you think about.” She sets the bowl down, empty though Anders would likely lick it clean if he had the hands to, her eyes lingering as her mood cools, then glances back upward. “There’s more though, isn’t there? You said you spoke of Danarius and then you were chained here. But I’ve seen the way Fenris looks at you.“

Anders chews his lower lip for a moment. “You have?” He says archly. “I haven’t.” He leans against the post then, shutting his eyes wearily and shakes his head. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and stark red welts where the makeshift gag has bitten into his cheeks. His wrists are even worse off, flecked with scabs, and his hands slightly purple from the bindings. “I don’t know what he feels… I don’t know if it matters now, either. I fell for him. Carnality taunted me with secrets, and it was… too much. Feeling that way for him, and thinking about what he’s suffered. And he’s like a Tranquil about it, he doesn’t know what he’s lost to grieve it and counts his own happiness as worth nothing. All he knows is Danarius and following his master’s orders.”

Dianna shifts her legs under her, skirt pulling and spreading about her in she shuffle, and she crosses her arms across her stomach as she tips her head to watch him thoughtfully. “Maybe.. that isn’t the way to approach it, then?”

“Any advice you have, I humbly accept it.” Anders speaks with a self-deprecating chuckle, but he opens his eyes again to regard Dianna as if reassessing her… or simply appreciating something he hadn’t expected. “You’re not upset with me?”

Whatever thought she had is paused, her head tipping just a little further and her eyebrows lifting quizzically. “Why would I be?”

“For fucking you at the orgy and then… going after Fenris and not you. Which is looking like one of many stupid decisions I’ve made in my life, but … there it is.”

“If I may be so frank, if I fell for every man that fucked me and then didn’t promptly spirit me away to some magical palace…. I hope you see my point.”

“I do. But let me say I was tempted to do some spiriting. I’m glad you aren’t hurt, but it didn’t stop me from feeling guilty.” Anders heaves a sigh, leaning his head wearily against the post. “You’re clever and you’re kind. I hope you’ll still talk to me like this whenever the chains come off.”

“Likely not, because you won’t be down here. But enough about me, did you want my advice or do you consider yourself better without him?”

Anders sighs again, harder. His brow tenses and he frowns, as if thinking about the subject is threatening to give him a headache. “..I want your advice. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Well…” Dianna shifts in place, glances down, feeling perhaps a stretch in her words, or just not used to commenting on such things. “You said he should be grieving for what he’s lost… but.. the way I see it, if someone came into my life and told me I should feel terrible for the death a person I don’t even know, maybe act a bit like that other person is better though I’m right here… well, I’d be a little mad.”

Anders’s feels his cheeks flush with shame, even if it’s a faint, wan flush. “I’m the one who’s been chained to a post for three days, and you’re saying I should apologize to him?”

“/No/, this is a terrible thing to do to anyone, and petty if he was just angry about what you said.” Dianna shrugs lamely. “Just… a thought, if you ever want to try again.”

Anders offers Dianna a small, hopeless smile. “You’re right. We’ll see. I -really- need to stop giving him reasons to be sick of me. Void take him, even now he’s all I think about. Even now, when all he does is glare at me in disgust and force water down my throat twice a day. I’m not sure if this is mad, or just pathetic. Maybe I just need sleep. I…” He trails off, realizing he’s babbling, words slurred with weariness.

For all his obsessing along Dianna just sits at his side and listens, and when he pauses she nods, rolls her heels under her to get up with the bowl in hand. “You need rest. Broth and water isn’t enough to keep you gossiping this long.”

“I guess you’ll need to put the gag back in.” Anders hangs his head. “Thank you for this. I won’t forget.”


	22. Chapter 22

Anders is sleeping, almost. He isn’t really awake, and he can’t manage to sleep any deeper than a light doze as he leans against the post he’s chained to. It’s been days since Dianna managed to sneak him some food. Long, exhausting days, boring days spent in squalor and pain, and now Anders has been spending most of that time in a sort of trance, a mental fog. He’s so hungry he’s become nauseous with hunger. The cramps when Fenris gives him water have grown so severe he ends up throwing it up on the floor after the bodyguard leaves. Even the slaves have started to give him looks of pity and concern. Anders is past wondering if he will die, He’s too exhausted for that kind of curiosity.

Usually Fenris announces himself through the haze by giving a yank on the belt covering the man’s mouth. But this time nothing, instead of a sharp pull jostling his skull a few metallic clicks sound, the chains unlocking and the sudden weight of the chain pulling the man’s limbs to the floor. No one else is there to see his removal, when Fenris loops his elbows under the apprentice’s armpits to haul him upright without asking, before he finally glances into the man’s eyes to be sure he’s still alive.

Anders shudders at Fenris’s touch, jerking awake. When his chains slither to the floor, he’s too tired to feel anything, relief or incredulity. But he manages to meet Fenris’s glance, once again looking for any veiled tenderness there, once again glaring when he finds none. Even through a week of starvation and exhaustion, that pain feels fresh. His teeth saw at the gag in his mouth.

The support in Fenris’ arms slump, slowly, wary that Anders will topple over the moment he lets go. Carefully he lets the man hold his own weight, and the moment Anders’ shoulders fall back into place at his sides Fenris reaches to undo the chains, one a cacophony of noise and then the other, and finally the leather stuffed into his mouth. And during it all, he hardly passes a glance over Anders’ gaze, barely a notion to recognize him more than he would any other slave returning from punishment, and his voice reflects the same. “Can you walk?”

Anders is unsteady on his feet. Once the gag is out of his mouth he simply starts toward the door without a word, weakly brushing Fenris away from him with a shove of one arm. His wrists are bloody and raw, scabbed over in places but weeping pus in others. The welts on his cheeks have also turned to shallow abrasions, lines of fresh scabs obscured by a week’s worth of beard growth.

Fenris gives a sharp glare to Anders’ back, surprised and half-offended that this man would just stride away as if he were free to go so quickly. The guard strikes out with his arm, catches the apprentice’s just above the elbow, grip tightening until the gauntlets running to his fingertips begin to dig into tired skin. He acts as a perfect anchor, unmoving from his spot by the slightest inch. “I am to bathe and dress you to be presented to our master this afternoon.” His words are tense,as expected , but carry a weight that the words he laid out are what they will do, period, and to deviate might risk the blonde’s already precarious life.

Anders stumbles when Fenris holds him back. But he straightens then, turning, drawing himself up to his full height. There are words that come to mind, sharp and bitter and poised on the tip of his tongue, but in the end Anders keeps them to himself. Head down, glowering, he motions to Fenris to lead the way.

It can all wait for when they’re away from the servant mess hall, in any case. Fenris remains silent for the duration of the walk out of the slave quarters and up the stairs, Anders a naked, dirty, starved mongrel amongst the white elegant furnishings, though the elf’s grip loosens somewhat. Only when they return to the apprentice quarters, close the door and round the corner to the hot bath already waiting, steam swirling across the surface and rising from the hot water, that he lets go and tips his chin down with the respect more befitting a magister in training. “Ser…” But he stops there, unsure of what he could say, and simply remains by the door instead.

Anders shakes off Fenris’s grip the moment they’re in his chambers, the door closed behind them. He slouches wearily to the bath and steps into it. He has his back turned when Fenris speaks, but after a moment he turns, leaning against the rim of the basin. That submissive posture from Fenris is a change he hadn’t expected to see so soon. It leaves him feeling confused. “Unless I’m mistaken I still have orders not to speak to you. And reminding you of that is likely enough to have me back in irons. So go report to our Master if you’d like to have me back in the scullery and out of your hair.”

A brief split moment of anger flashes past Fenris’ eyes but he looks down, quick to get back to his old habits if nothing else. The silence lingers between them, and it almost appears as if the guard would take that as enough to shut his mouth, but eventually he opens it again. “What happened wasn’t my intention.”

“The other slaves are right, then. You -are- stupid.” Anders turns his back once more, half certain he’ll be back in chains again soon and wanting to at least enjoy a few minutes soaking in warm water.

Fenris goes quiet, again, and with a tiny sigh turns to leave the room. “I will ready fresh clothes for you. Inform me if you wish anything else.” He was well aware of how alienated he was from the other slaves. But hearing that they considered him stupid was entirely new.

“Wait, I…” Anders speaks hesitantly. When he looks back over his shoulder his expression is conflicted, with weariness winning out. “ …am also stupid. I … Maker, what’s the use. What -did- you intend?”

“I-” Fenris stops himself, his words and his beginning steps, and gulps softly as he stares at the floor. The only answer that comes to him makes the slaves’ impression of him true. “I didn’t intend anything.”

“Neither did I,” Anders answers. His voice is low and hoarse, and he lowers his head to cough and try to clear his disused throat. Even then, his words stick in his throat. He can still see Fenris’s cold glare, all the slave would give him for the past week. “Why tell me so?”

No answer is really forthcoming to that, and the question only serves to confuse Fenris’ feelings further. He is still angry, and hurt, though he would have much rathered Anders continue his business in the lab while he quietly minded his at his master’s side. But that would mean he thinks Danarius was wrong.  
“I don’t know.”

“Mmm.” Anders sinks down into the hot water up to his chin. He’s warm for the first time in days, and he can feel some of the aches in his body finally finding relief. “I’ve had time to think. Time I should have taken before. I’m sorry for so much of what I said to you. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I apologize and… that’s all I really have to say to you right now.”

“…yes ser. I suggest you be ready for our master soon, should you begin to try his patience.” Though Danarius had mentioned something to the effect of not letting Anders leave the bath until he was absolutely spotless and less haggard than he likely would be, Fenris doesn’t feel quite like testing that notion. He turns, more pointedly leaving the bathroom this time, though only around the corner to pick out fresh clothes.

That cold, proper response hits Anders like a punch to the gut. And how many times in the past few minutes had he choked on that apology, his thoughts hitting the image of Fenris’s cold stare like a fledgling sparrow hitting a window. He’d managed it, and this is what it got him. He’d hoped for better. But he’d expected this. Disappointment still drags at him and he sinks under the surface of the water, coming up dripping and pushing lank hair out of his face. He finds the soap and begins to scrub himself clean.

It takes some minutes, plenty of time for Anders to wash properly and almost plenty enough time to begin to wonder, before Fenris returns with a neatly folded pile in his hands. “Your clothes.” The words are painfully polite but not forced out, not snarled under the elf’s breath as if he doesn’t believe the respect he speaks. When he kneels at the bathside to set them down his gaze dares glance up, mossy eyes meeker than they should be before they drop again.

Yet again, Fenris’s manner gives Anders pause. He recognizes that submission in the bodyguard, that meek, wide-eyed look that puts color in his cheeks just at the sight of it, He realizes that ‘ser’ before had been not coldly formal but…demure. He was only this deferential to his Master. The master he loves. Anders feels stricken all over again, but this time to the chest, and from a totally different direction. His heart is hammering at his ribs. “I would like to shave before I present myself. Do you believe Danarius will countenance the delay?”

“Certainly.” The words are answered as quickly as Fenris straightens, and he quietly resumes his post by the door of the bathroom. As hot as the bathwater started it has begun to cool, no longer steaming and clearly brought up by slaves or only heated from the meager magic amongst them, while the folded clothes warm in the light blazing through the window.

Anders steps out of the bath, water streaming off him as he finds a towel and rubs himself dry. He winces when some of the scabs on his wrists rub away. Exhausted as he is, he can only summon enough magic to stanch any bleeding for now. It takes him a goodly while to shave, but when it’s done he looks… haggard, but almost himself. He pulls on the clothing Fenris brought for him as briskly as he can manage.

Fenris watches silently, perhaps a bit too intently when Anders shaves, eyes following the edge of the blade and the curves it makes, the careful lines drawn along the edges, the hook of Anders’ jaw just under the ear down the straight line to the round chin, and the now starving cheeks with their slight curves inward just under the jawbone. The smoothed down details aren’t what he watches for, but with the same mildly quizzical look one would expect from a woman, or anyone else who hasn’t dealt with shaving the relentless stubble.  
When Anders finishes Fenris escorts him to the study; even on the way down the hall his form becomes tighter, shoulders rigid at his sides, and when he glances to the apprentice while turning to open the door his eyes have become as cold and inscrutable as ever.

Anders is simply tired. The fog of weariness is so heavy around him that he can barely feel anything through it. Danarius will accept his apology or he won’t, and Anders can’t find it in himself to feel the anxiety he knows he should be feeling, when he stands behind Fenris at the door to the Master’s study.  
That door opens after a knock from the bodyguard, a simple cantrip from the magister who remains seated at his desk. In front of him on the desk is some manner of enormous leather…thing. Anders isn’t sure how to describe it. It’s large, heavy-looking, and it trails heavy chains from a few brackets. The sight of it stokes the apprentice’s anxiety. Maybe he hasn’t seen Danarius’s worst, just yet. But the magister, oddly enough, looks at him with an expression that bespeaks concern more than anger. “Come in, my dove,” he says, his voice sonorous and genteel. Anders obeys without a second thought. He crosses the ornate carpet to sit down in an upholstered chair in front of the desk, head bowed.

 

Fenris closes the door behind them and follows Anders closely, heels practically on the back edges of the man’s robes, and he comes to a halt to one side of the chair. The guard doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by whatever it is, but when does he ever seem the slightest bit troubled by anything his master does. There is a constant thin line with that elf, between an icy politeness and a quiet supplication, all subtle nuances that only become clear while spending time around him. And now they tip, so easily and just a small adjustment of the eyebrows and an incline of the chin, back from the humbler eyes near the bath to something again properly on guard, stern control.

Danarius raises his gaze to his bodyguard for a moment, a calm and proud approval in his eyes at what he sees. But he gives him only brief acknowledgment before returning his attention to the apprentice. “I am prepared to receive your apology,” he states, one hand resting on the heavy leather yoke before him.  
“You have it,” Anders answers, though he doesn’t look up. “I… spoke in haste, and out of ignorance, and could’ve done you harm I truly didn’t intend. I don’t know if my word is worth anything to you now but I would never raise a hand against you.”  
Danarius is pleased. His lips draw into a thin smile. “Yes, as you did not when I had Fenris strip and bind you, and as you served your punishment as a penitent, obeying my commands although you suffered. It is over and done, Anders. You are expiated and what occurred will not be held against you. I am pleased that we will be able to put this matter behind us… and pleased with -you-, my dove. In spite of reckless speech, when tested you have proven loyal. -That- is what I will remember about these past many days.”  
The Magister’s words seem to glow with warmth and pride. The sheer unexpectedness of it catches Anders unprepared, and he swallows against a tightening throat. So sudden and intense is the gratitude and the remorse welling up to fill his chest, that he suspects magic, but when he searches in his mind he finds none. Only distant memories of his father’s bearded lips smiling, a calloused, lean hand on his shoulder, so big, or was he so small? When he feels a tear spill over the brim of his lower lid, Danarius rises, and there’s a whisper of his robes as the old magister bends down to embrace him. “Shhh, my boy,” he murmurs. “All is forgiven.”  
“I would never…” Anders stammers, choking on a sob. “I have not forgotten I owe you my life, Master, I would not…”  
A long-fingered hand strokes Anders’ hair. “Hush now, my boy. I know, I know.”

Fenris may have been completely stoic moments ago. The smallest hints of approval from Danarius and he takes a silent breath of air, unconsciously puffing his chest for a split second before sighing, slowly, and he seems a little taller as he straightens in place. But he watches Danarius, follows the man’s gaze as it plays across Anders, up to the very moment that the guard takes a small step and shies backward at the show of emotion between them even if his master remains composed. It was all, entirely, the last he expected out of this talk, and several occasions give him enough watch the both of them in utter confusion. The look betrays him, curious, but never questioning.

Anders composes himself as quickly as he can. Danarius gives him time, settling back into the chair behind his desk. “Over this past week I have had time to speak with Fenris in greater detail about what was said. I have reached some conclusions. One is that you are a lovestruck fool, my dove, not that I fault you for it. My little Fenris has many charms. The other is that you know the Imperium only as your southern Chantry has framed it for you. You cannot be blamed for this, and truly it is I who have been remiss. How are you to know my motivations, my ambitions and methods, if I do not explain them to you? I wish to do so now, at least in part. As I understand it, you grieved over what Carnality told you of Fenris’s suffering during my grand experiment. Your compassion is laudable, but I wish you to understand that what I have done in creating Fenris was not done out of vanity or greed. I wish you to understand the -dire necessity- that drove me to do what was done, and the hopes I pinned upon Fenris. I am not a sadist, my dove. All that I do is done for a purpose.”  
Anders nods his understanding, his posture easing in his chair, his hands resting on its arms.  
“I shall begin with a question,” Danarius continues, resting a gnarled hand on the leather yoke in front of him once again. “Do you know what this is?”

And there it is. Fenris knows what it is but had dismissed it, as he usually did anything Danarius worked on. The man’s reasons, the kindness become clear as this turns into an impromptu lesson. But the slave’s thoughts wander behind those unyielding eyes to the man seated at his side, the blond strands still young if stressed from the recent punishment, golden and near matching to the gilded cage near the window when the light strikes both. He can’t dare assume Anders is still what Danarius would call a lovestruck fool, the days long from when the apprentice told him to leave. The best he should hope for is a kind formality between them. That fact hits his stomach, a canonball falling into a pan and denting the metal with the punch.

Anders shakes his head in answer to Danarius’s question. “No, Ser. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”  
“This is a collar, Anders. The manner worn by a saarebas.” The word is sibilant in Danarius’s mouth and the hiss of it speaks of distaste. “Do you know that word?”  
“A bound Qunari mage. I believe it means, more literally, ‘dangerous thing’?”  
Danarius nods. “As you say. The Qunari bind their mages with these collars, powers held in check by a linked control rod. In addition to the collar, a saarebas will typically have their eyes sewn shut, and their lips, with only enough slack to allow them to take broth. From the day they show their powers, no Qunari mage tastes freedom. And indeed, they are broken of the will to even dream of such a thing. It is their role, their -place- within the Qun, and even those who are not chained, maimed, and collared by that doctrine are thralls to it. The Qunari believe the individual will in nothing but vanity and weakness. The individual is worth nothing, they are a cog in a machine, they have a purpose and if they do not serve it, they are waste. Even the meanest slave in the Imperium is counted as worth more than that.”  
Anders nods his understanding when Danarius pauses.  
“They have been pushing south. Their Antaam, their army, has been sending out feelers for some time and we believe the war in Seheron may soon reach nearer shores. They will stop at nothing less than total conquest over the nations of Thedas, and they will begin with the Imperium… our nation of 'dangerous things’ that has stood in conflict with them for centuries. This -must- not come to pass. All war is monstrous, but the Qunari are a horror nearly equal to the Blight. Those who will not bow in submission to their doctrines are given qamek. They are stripped of their will, even more completely than your Circle’s Tranquil. The Qunari would deny all people of all races even the freedom of their own thoughts. I see in your eyes that you’ve felt the horror of knowing this could be your fate. This could be the fate of -Thedas-, Anders, if the Imperium falls.”

Fenris is barely paying attention, a living post in the room and comfortable for it. He knows the reasons well, heard them pass the lips of so many here that it surprises him somewhat that Anders would be at all alien to the threat. One the guard is not only aware of but has lived. More than once he has been what stood between Tevinter and the Qunari, every one of them downed by his hand and sword until Danarius ordered him back.  
But his thoughts are interrupted by a soft sound at the door across the room behind him, a bare rasping at the door, knowingly interrupting and only loud enough to fall on an elf’s ears and leave the final decision to Fenris. He turns, sudden and on his heel for the door to open it just far enough to see who it is. The slave at the door passes two fresh cups of tea, fine bone ware for special occasions and each steaming, and a quiet muttering of a message before Fenris nods, a curt tip of the chin before the door closes and he returns to the table to set the drinks on the desk.

While Danarius picks up his teacup without a thought, Anders seems mystified by the sudden appearance of his. He drinks, and he shuts his eyes with an unrepressed sigh of pleasure. It’s warm in his stomach, that blessedly doesn’t cramp as the tea hits it. The steam caresses his face, carrying an aroma of flowers and bergamot. Danarius grants him a moment to indulge, smiling as he looks on, enjoying his apprentice’s guileless appreciation until he realizes that Anders is starting to nod off in his chair. The magister clears his throat and Anders snaps awake, nearly spilling hot tea across his lap. “There is more to say, but perhaps the rest can wait. Go and sleep, dear boy. There will be a meal waiting when you wake, and you may come and call upon me whenever you wish. You have my permission to speak to my servants, and Fenris, and command them once more… you are a true member of my household, dove. I would have it no other way… my pet wolf has grown terribly attached to you, after all.”

From where he straightens after setting the tea in place Fenris remains, silent. With a quick lash outward he reaches forward, a bit brash in the action and his palm to the desk as he reaches with the other, catches the edge of Anders’ cup as it lightly fumbles in the apprentice’s grip. He lifts it away carefully to set it back down on the small plate in front of the man, nearly breathes a sigh of relief when he rises. As Danarius dismisses Anders Fenris pauses, lets the silence punctuate their conversation, before he speaks himself. “Helen has bore twins for you, ser, and she remains in good health.”

Anders pushes himself from his chair, and Danarius rises as well, as he would when entertaining a peer. The magister nods to Fenris’s words, a small, satisfied smile on his face. “/Twins/ you say? What a rare delight. See that she and her babes are moved to the best of the slave quarters, I should like the babes to thrive. Tell Dianna that Helen is to be rewarded if the offspring prove to be hale and free of defects.”  
While Danarius speaks, Anders sways on his feet and turns to leave. “And when you have done that,” the Magister says, his voice fading in the haze of Anders’ exhaustion, “warm the apprentice’s bed.”

Fenris nearly falters at the last order. Nearly, instead a quick glance in Anders’ direction, as if he could immediately read the apprentice’s thoughts, and a curt nod either way. “Of course.” He turns, then, and escorts Anders out of the room as they had come in, unsure whether to silently curse or thank the slave that had left the hall so quickly, and with them no way to relay the orders to Dianna.


	23. Chapter 23

Fenris warms Anders’ bed as ordered. Exactly, and no more, no less, easily enough when the man at his side passes out the moment he hits the covers, the only intimacy as the apprentice clutches to him for warmth. Even in the middle of the late afternoon, when the elf can’t even force himself to sleep, and instead spends his time noticing the finer details; the rings under the apprentice’s eyes, his paler skin that feels a touch too cold, the way he sleeps absolutely motionless and barely a twitch.  
Eventually, long past sunset, Fenris does fall asleep. But he remains certain that Anders never stirs once. Nor does he when, near dawn, the elf removes himself from the bed, prying out from one clinging arm and then the other, to go about his daily routine. And try to accept that beyond a source of warmth that he likely wouldn’t be welcome. Not truly.  
It does seem to be the end of it. The apprentice spends most of the following few days eating or sleeping, not requesting the guard’s presence, and for that short time Fenris feels as if Anders doesn’t exist at all. The blonde doesn’t pass him in the hall, the door to the study remains closed, the workroom untouched.  
So when he walks down the hall, passing through the library towards the personal quarters all long strides and quick gait and nothing to weigh him down but a pair of leggings and a steel toned high collared vest, he thinks nothing of the fact that he might run into someone along the way.

Anders works when he’s able, but between having been deprived of sleep and the weakness of near starvation, he tires far more easily than he’d like. He’s taken to carrying the books he’s studying back and forth between his study and his bedchamber, just so he can continue reading in bed when he knows he’d otherwise drift off at his desk. He’s on his way back to his study after one of these naps when he sees Fenris, framed in the corridor, striding with his head down. They’ve spoken little, though Anders has placed the blame for that more on how much he’s been sleeping. But then, he knew Fenris was adept at avoiding him, a discrete sort of dance that all the slaves practiced now and then.

The elf seems so tuned to his own thoughts and whatever seems to be rushing him beyond his normal militant urgency that he nearly jumps the moment he notices Anders coming towards him. It certainly isn’t like Fenris, not immediately noticing someone even before they come into view. He doesn’t say a word or even bother to coldly stare at the eyes watching him, gaze low and averted, and instead of immediately slowing to let the apprentice pass he turns one shoulder to lead himself. But with that movement, hips turning and favoring one side of the hallway so neither of them half to stop, the light from the windows hits him just so, catches his front instead of his flank, and details a thick, full erection. It strains his pants, causes a ripple of creases along his hips and the beginning edge of his thighs, suddenly his urgency and hidden gaze all too obvious.

Anders takes notice. A smile tugs his lips into a sensual curve and he quickens his pace, but rather than avoiding Fenris he plants one hand against the corridor wall, blocking his path and bringing him to a halt. He closes off the slave’s escape the same way, head lowered to try and look into moss green eyes as he backs Fenris up against the wall bracketed by his arms. “Look at me, Fenris.” Anders says it with an edge of command to his voice, a warmer mimicry of the tone he’s heard Danarius use, and he knows Fenris will obey before he even takes a moment to think. And when he does, Anders’ lips are there, his mouth covering Fenris’s mouth, his tongue forcing past his lips and teeth. Anders’ thigh shoves between Fenris’s knees and the apprentice grinds his hips forward, trapping the slave’s straining erection against the joint of his thigh.

The only thing Fenris can do is moan, instincts used against him and completely trapped in place, hands penning his shoulders and thigh pinning his hips to the wall and the sound muffled under the kiss. He returns it, palms of his bare scarred hands pressing flat to the wall and pushing him forward, lips chasing Anders’ to keep them sealed, desperate for the apprentice or even just the attention. His knees begin to buckle, not completely but enough to let gravity pull his weight and presses his trapped erection to the offered thigh. Not an outward grind, but a needing lean, a pressure that emphasizes the hot heartbeat between them.

Anders doesn’t break the kiss. He leans into it, leans his chest against Fenris’s body, pulls him against the curve of his own torso with one hand at the small of the bodyguard’s back. The other hand he slips into Fenris’s tight leather leggings, cupping his erection in his hand, fumbling a bit to find an angle where he can grip that velvet shaft and pump him, fast and firm. His eyes shut, and all his awareness closes in in the darkness behind his eyelids. Everything is the warmth of their bodies and their shared breath, the sound of Fenris’s breathing and his moans, the pulse that beats against Anders’s fingers as he works Fenris’s shaft.

The slave begins to whimper. A pathetic sound that croaks unexpectedly from his throat, muffled by their breath and lips. Fenris’ hips draw forward, aching and pleasured so overwhelmingly and he’s never been handled quite like this, worked so firmly under Anders’ touch in the way he’d only ever get if it were his own hand, in his room and feeling a quiet shame at not being able to hold himself back. This is how it often happened with his master, driven absolutely to the edge and then left before the end.  
And then interrupted in the middle of the hall, pinned and the hand wrapped around his cock while the apprentice hardly seems to care about himself. A quiet whimper is the least of what escapes him, eyes fluttering shut, lips pulling at the kiss as they curl with a sharp gasp, thighs flexing as his toes curl against the fine carpet and the violent tension of his stomach from already being oh so close.

Anders closes his teeth on Fenris’s plump lower lip and tugs, sharp but nowhere near hard enough to hurt. The sounds of Fenris panting and whimpering has his pulse hammering in his chest and his cock growing stiff in his pants. “Come,” Anders whispers. “I won’t let you fall.” He strokes Fenris in a rapid flurry, changing his grip to grind Fenris’s tip into his palm. His other hand slips down from the small of the slave’s back, clutching his firm rump, fingertips teasing at the sensitive stretch between his legs, behind his balls. And he leans closer, keeping Fenris’s shoulders flush against the wall, pinned between the wall and his chest, his presence as protective as it is possessive.

Fenris forces his eyes open, can’t stop himself from taking a quick glance down the hall though nobody else is expected here, and hesitantly slips his lip from Anders’ teeth as he tips his chin downward. Air rushes past, keeps his mouth parted just enough to see the faint edge of white teeth with every shudder and gasp and struggle, his eyebrows pulling up at the center and he just stares. His erection arches upward in Anders’ palm, skin pulling taught over full veins and back up with each pump of the man’s fist, the head suffering the pleasure as it drips, a jostled candle threatening to spill. With a small sound surprised out of Fenris’ lungs it does, hips bucking forward to the apprentice’s hand and erection spasming as it spurts across the fingers tending the shaft, long-teased and his climax heavier for it.

Anders leans close, his exhalation hot and heavy against Fenris’s neck as he does. His own cock flexes against the restraint of his clothing, a gesture of sympathy for the spasms that wrack Fenris. He holds the elf against his body, just as he promised. His fingers don’t cease but press into the tender underside of Fenris’s cock and massage him there, easing him past the crest of his pleasure and letting satiation sink deep into him. "Beautiful…“ Anders whispers the word without realizing it at first, as if it’s the most natural response in the world to the prompting of Fenris’s gasps and moans, his lean body writhing up against him. "Beautiful Fenris…” He can feel his semen warm in the palm of his hand, and when Fenris’s cock gives its last heavy twitch he pulls his hand free to suck the thick, white jism from his own skin. His eyes barely cracked, he glances to Fenris to be sure he watches and sees the pearly threads that tether his lips together before his tongue swipes them away.

The truth is Fenris only barely registers those words, distant against the din of his buzzing ears and the way Anders licks himself clean, his knees going weak from the sight and truly beginning to set his weight to Anders, and the creeping anxiety that the longer they stay the more chance someone has to simply walk up the stairs. In the end it likely wouldn’t matter, not when a master is involved, but the embarrassment is enough to fuel him. His expression remains a hazed disbelief and a baser gratitude, one that reaches his jaw forward to plant a small kiss to bottom lip, another just below it along the inward dip, and another at the chin covered in the barest hints of stubble. The moment his breath calms, slows from choking gasps and pants that leave his chest exhausted, his gaze ventures to linger at the door to the apprentice’s room. “We should go..”

Anders nods. His gaze turns soft when Fenris kisses him, and when he realizes the slave is looking to his bedroom door, a dozen knots of anxious misgivings start to unravel. He smiles, leaning forehead against forehead for just a moment and then drawing away. “Come to bed?” He makes sure Fenris’s legs can take his weight before he takes the arm from around his back and links fingers with him instead.

The nod Fenris responds with is short, as curt as one can be in the lazy aftermath, and he almost stumbles forward when Anders takes him by the hand to lead him away, a quick step and a shorter one before he gains some composure. Not much of it, spent and the tip of his relaxing dick in the crumple of pants at his hips, and the moment he’s able the guard reaches back to shut the door behind them. His thumb clicks the small latch into place but his eyes remain cast downward, not shy but not exactly expecting to be back in this room so quickly, uncertain of his standing between them.

The room is the same as it’s ever been with the exception of the unmade bed where Anders was all too recently taking a catnap, and the piles of books and notes, the inkwell and quill on the bedside table. Anders is sitting on the edge of his bed, kicking his boots off, when Fenris shuts the door. He looks up at the sound of the latch to see Fenris standing there, and realizes how much has been unspoken between them over the past week. Yet his mouth goes dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of it, when he considers how miserably he seems to botch it every time they try to talk. He swallows and stands up, holding out his hand. “I love you. I’ll try not to fuck it up too badly this time.”

Fenris lets his eyes trail up, chin following, then the gaze lists again while he thinks over those words. “I.. appreciate your attempts, even so.” He takes a few steps forward, ignores and passes the hand offered to him, and stops a breath shy of the man’s chest, dips his head without letting himself rest against a shoulder. “I have treated you too unfairly. You would be better off finding someone else for your attention.”

Anders takes the half-step forward needed to close the small space between them. “I don’t want anyone but you. If you can forgive me all my foolishness and grant me second chances, I can do the same for you. If our Master can set what happened behind us, then he serves as an example of the kind of man I should be. If you want forgiveness, it’s yours. If you want my love, or a place in my bed… those are yours, too.” Anders holds back from raising his arms to hold Fenris against him. He hears the tremor in his own voice as he speaks, and tries to steady it.

Fenris doesn’t step back, or shy away, or move to hug Anders, instead turns his head towards the movement, a small nuzzle to the man’s chin that just doesn’t want to admit to being one. His lips press to skin, a quick dip to avoid the stubble, finding the delicate space of throat, the inward curve just under the adam’s apple, the gentle cup at the center of the collarbone. And he sinks, hands raising and pressing to chest for stability, dragging downward carefully and the guard drops to his knees. Fenris places his lips down again, this time against the clothes along the lingering erection, and he takes a deep breath of the warmth there before glancing up. “I just want you.”

Anders looks down at Fenris, feels himself stir to hardness against that kiss. He voices a breathless moan and tips his hips forward. His belt falls to the floor after he slips open the buckle, and then he starts to open his robes, pushing them out of the way before shedding them completely to show the bulge in his trousers. He rests his hands on Fenris’s hair, urging him on without a word.


	24. Chapter 24

Anders ties a leather apron on over his robes. When he works in the lab, he ties his hair back into a strict ponytail rather than the loose affair he’s been favoring lately that lets a few stray locks shadow his eyes. He has his recipes laid out on a reading stand, ready to hand, and he begins to set up the clamps, alcohol burners, and glassware to facilitate the extractions and infusions and titrations he has planned for the day.

 

Fenris thinks nothing of it when he pulls open the door to the smaller workroom the apprentice is assigned to. Many days have been like this, so close to the routine before Anders, when Danarius worked on nothing that involved a bodyguard, when Dianna was away to help fetch supplies for the kitchen. Times like these he was content with any excuse to leave the master lab, only entering to replace the tea silently. So easy enough that he hardly hesitates to add the apprentice lab to his chores, a hot cup in hand, the door quiet behind him and a quick step to replace an empty cup.

Anders looks up abruptly from his workbench when Fenris enters. He’s in the process of pulling fresh herbs out of a small crate and arraying them on a cutting block, but his thoughts scatter when his eyes settle on Fenris. It’s after a moment of staring with a slightly forlorn look in his eyes that he notices the tea. “Oh, good, that’s still steaming, I need it over here quickly.” He points to an empty spot on the workbench and reaches for a jar on the reagent shelf. After shaking some dark purple threads of something dried into a mortar he begins to grind them to dust.

The guard simply blinks as Anders turns away, less from the command and more the expression given to his entrance, but the quizzical look that follows are lost with no one to see them. So he steps forward obediently, sets the fresh tea to the counter, and pauses to watch Anders’ hands before his mind comes to him. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Do you have a few minutes? I want to try and make some lyrium draught but I need someone to handle the lyrium powder.” Anders does take a sip of the tea, but he sets it back down and empties the mortar into it, then sets the cup back and out of the way. He doesn’t notice Fenris watching him, but he feels a sort of warmth, a subliminal pressure of his proximity, and it’s comforting. “Other than that, those flasks on that bench need to be fastened upright into that rack of clamps behind them. If you could do that, then put a burner under the leftmost one and light it…?”

For a long pause Fenris is left speechless, staring at the tea before his eyes trail to the glassware. “Ser, I can’t-” The faltering start is cut short, and with a curt sigh he nods even if Anders can’t see it. “-Of course.” Danarius has done the same task while he watched countless times, that he’s never done it himself doesn’t mean the task is difficult, and he sets to putting the flasks in place with an unamused rumble. “Would you be needing more tea, then?”

“Why were you gone when I woke up?” Anders brushes aside Fenris’s question, not sure if he’s annoyed or amused by the slight pointedness of it. He works on slicing some pungent leaves into fine slivers, and their smell rises up like the smell of cut grass, but sharp and heavy somehow.

And then a short huff through the elf’s nose, half sounding amused in turn and half from the unexpected smell, eyes snapping to the leaves before they roll away and back to the burner with a small shake of his head. He picks about awkwardly before finding a match, the small box of them unused and dusty in the corner and out of formality rather than necessity when most mages can provide their own fire. “Would you rather I woke you at dawn for morning tasks you are not a part of?”

“Yes, actually, even if it’s just for a goodbye kiss.” Anders gives that a moment of thought but when he answers, he sounds very certain. “I just.. wanted to be sure I hadn’t gone and made a mess of things again, somehow. In my sleep.” He half-smiles, but he keeps his eyes on what he’s doing. When he has enough deep green slivers of plantleaves, he scoops them up carefully in one palm and into a glass bowl. A gesture, a murmur, and he conjures cold water to fill the bowl. Almost immediately, the water is infused with swirls of green, slowly turning brown, then deep maroon.

“One would need to leave for it to be a goodbye, and you can kiss me whenever the whim strikes you.” Fenris steps back from the fire once lit and placed under the glass, to a distant he’s both more familiar and comfortable with when it comes to lab work.

“Have it your way, then. I just can’t think of anything I would rather wake up to than your face.” When Anders steps back, he checks Fenris’s work and grins. “That’s perfect, now I only need to set the tubes in place. Can you watch that bowl of water for me, with the leaves in it? Tell me when it starts to turn cloudy, then I need to strain the leaves out.” He reaches for the tea he set aside, swirling it in its cup and taking a whiff of the rising vapors. Concluding that the infusion could use a bit more time, he sets the cup back where it was. “Oh and come closer a moment, I have some kind of whim striking me.”

Fenris lets his gaze linger over the water even as he steps forward, and Anders gets a full view of the small scrunch of his nose and displeased look at being asked to keep watch over something that bothers his nose. “If you’re looking for a work assistant, I could recommend one of the other slaves to you.” But he is closer nonetheless, gaze finally casting upward and half-expectant.

Anders leans in to plant a kiss on Fenris’s mouth, lingering close for a moment. “No, that wouldn’t do at all. Then I wouldn’t have any excuses handy to keep you from leaving.”

Fenris smirks at that, no true change in his expression but a quirk to the corner of his lips. “You don’t need an excuse to keep me, regardless.”

Anders just smiles at that, looking carefree in a way he hasn’t in weeks. “Then stay if you can. Whether you’d rather idle or have me keep you busy.” Anders steals a second kiss, letting his eyes close for a moment in dreamy bliss. But he remembers the work he has on the bench, and after that he squares his shoulders and returns to it.

“I would only be in your way.” Still, Fenris moves to the mixture he was told to watch, shoulderblades setting as he props his palms against the edge of the counter. “…/Or a distraction./” The way he says it he knows he’s been one already, and after a few moments he adds, expression soured again, “What is this?”

“Leaves from a flower called Andraste’s Grace. I’m getting an infusion of the oils from the leaves and doing it cold because it gets kind of tannic when heated. I want to get the sweet notes and leave the acrid ones behind.” Anders leans down, almost placing his cheek on the surface of the workbench as he studies the deepening color of the fluid in the bowl. True to his word, the scent from it has become less of a heavy, green pungence and something far more quiet and floral. Still waiting on the chopping block are an array of flowers. Iris roots, roses still in the bud, a bowl of jasmine blossoms, fresh leaves of tobacco, and some long, stringy vanilla beans. “This is more of a …personal project. Nothing very magical involved in it, really.”

The explanation may as well have been in another language and Fenris just stares, watches Anders examine the bowl with an twitch of an eyebrow. A small scowl curls the edges of his lips, not outright hard an angry but not pleased by being answered with obscure procedures the slave would obviously have no mind for. “But you still haven’t told me what it is.”

“Perfume, eventually,” Anders says as he straightens again. “I’m sure Minrathous has fine perfumiers but I wanted to try my hand at it. If I manage to make something that isn’t abominable, I thought I might bottle it for Dianna.”

Fenris rises from his spot, hands dropping to his sides and taking a small step back as his brow knits. There’s something new, in his eyes and subtly in the way he holds his weight back, a faint wariness. “Why?”

Anders turns and leans back against the lab bench, raising his eyebrows at Fenris. “When I was being punished she sat with me sometimes. It made things better, to know somebody cared. And she’s talk to the other servants sometimes while she was there, and I’d get to know the household that way, and I felt… less alone. She was kind and I owe her something for that.”

“She could be punished for her kindness if you don’t remain quiet about it.” The response is sharp, certainly, but at least somewhat satisfied. Moreso, as his shoulders sink to something more relaxed than the stiff state he’d found himself in. “You should find a better reason.”

“Because I had -such- a good time at the party, how’s that then? I wanted to tell you the truth because it isn’t something you should feel hurt and jealous over. Please keep it between us.” Anders gives Fenris an earnest look. “Besides, I’m going to be doing an oil emulsion really similar to something involved in making healing salve for deep wounds. This is good practice.”

With a last sigh the stern tones smooth away from Fenris’ voice. “I have no reason to report it.” And honestly, he suspects Danarius knows as much already every time he sends someone there. If he truly wanted someone to starve, there would be places to lock them away alone. The humility of begging wasn’t lost on Fenris despite never being put there himself. “Is that the only reason you came to like her?”

Anders shakes his head. “It was also… watching her, listening to her. She’s clever, witty… a good person to have as a friend. I’m hoping I might have her to go to when I need advice about living here. I don’t trust that demon, and I don’t want to end up putting you in a difficult position just because I’m ignorant.”

“The demon?” Fenris crosses her out of his mind, for now, when even he can see any feelings he harbors about it are petty and selfish. “You will have to deal with him soon enough. What has he done?”

 

“Yes, the demon. Maker, I never had a chance to tell you about that.” Anders puts a palm to his forehead with a heavy sigh. “He came to me wanting to be, er, -fed-…” Anders cheeks flush and he turns away to try and hide somewhat. A pearlescent cloudiness has started to cloud the bowl of leaves and water, so he sets to straining the leaves out. The infused water he pours into a beaker and sets above a burner, but before he lights the flame, he begins attaching tubes and stoppers, clamping things in place. “And he told me he knew things no one else would tell me.”

Fenris seems more amused than embarrassed at the thought, the reaction entirely different from when Dianna comes up. With a step closer he drops a hand to the counter, elbow locked as he props himself, suddenly interested and keeping himself from leaning in closer towards to back of Anders’ head. “And?”

“And everything he told me was… upsetting.” Anders blushes even hotter, realizing he can’t even try and hide behind his hair. “I’m sure he knew it, too. He didn’t -lie- but… well, forgive me if I’m not ready to trust a desire demon who seems to think my fumbling is great entertainment.”

“He tends to think that of anyone. No different than the cats, only larger and more occasionally irritating.” The elf straightens then, his arm going slack but not completely dropping from the table edge, edges of his fingertips still loosely resting as his voice softens. “It’s true that he trades information amongst the house, but if you need to know anything, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Anders finally turns his head, gratitude in his eyes at that final statement. “No, you wouldn’t. I think I just need to get better at talking to you.” He sets the last few things in place and lights the burner under the flask, everything set to distill a more concentrated mixture out of the infusion. “So… you… feed that demon often?”

Of all questions, Fenris hadn’t expected this one, and he isn’t quick to answer. “His position is above mine.” As if that answers everything. But then, he does add, “Does it bother you?”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I said it did, now.” Anders still frowns, though, and looks away, out the lab’s narrow windows for a moment. He isn’t happy about it, clearly. But he also isn’t confident that he can put his finger on why. “I hope he’s less of a bastard to you, at least.”

“I wouldn’t have referred to him as a bastard, so it’s likely.” Fenris can’t help but smirk, a small pull of his lips, something awkward his mouth is unused to, but genuine all the same in its amusement. “Perhaps if you spoke to Carnality more often, instead of calling him a bastard demon behind his back.”

Anders steps close, settling his hands at Fenris’s waist and beginning to smile, tentatively. “I’ll be nice, then, since you say so. He’s a decent lay, at least. In a strange way he did seem to be trying to help.”

“Yes, he tends to do that.” Trying, meaning well even, but always just missing the mark, the way a demon does when they’re trying desperately to be a part of a world they don’t honestly belong in. That was the difference between Anders and Carnality, then, both not belonging, one all the proper motivation and incorrect motions, the other all motion but the motivations… alien.  
And Fenris remains in place, that smirk not once fading but not responding, not resting his arms along Anders’ back like the back of his mind wants to. "You’re beginning to get distracted.“

Anders is leaning in, eyes half-lidded. He plants the kiss on Fenris’s lips after the admonishment, acknowledging it with an "mmmm.” He lingers like that for a moment, feeling Fenris’s breath on his upper lip, and then he pulls away wearing a satisfied smile. “You were right. You’re very distracting after all.” One of his hands slides down from Fenris waist to give his rear a squeeze, and his smile breaks into a grin.

The smile left Fenris’ lips with that kiss, distracted from it for a moment and now back to that damned comfortable neutrality, stolen and now curving Anders’ mouth. He decides he likes it better, worn on the apprentice, and that thought is interrupted with a simple grope. The guard huffs, narrows his eyes without turning the gaze into an outright glare. “I would suggest you order me to leave, but as I recall you needed me to help you..?”

“I do indeed,” Anders answers, with mirth still curving the lower contours of his eyes. "We’re going to have to be careful with this, though.“ Anders begins setting up tubes and vials on the last clear section of workbench. "Now back in the Circle? Nobody’s supposed to know this formula but Formari Tranquil. Had to do a good deal of sneaking around to learn this, and screwing it up can mean death for a mage. But I managed. No better way to bribe a Templar than with lyrium flasks.” He grins over his shoulder at Fenris with obvious, rakish pride.

“Then I suppose it’s something important?” Fenris dares a bit closer to look, a bit of something honest in his voice, an edge of what he is instead of what he should be. Harsh words, still, but a smirk and a sarcasm to the tone of it that wasn’t there before.

“Your Master requested these, so, that should be enough of an answer for you.” Anders’ tone is cheerful but with a sort of crispness to it, his mind on what he’s doing. Once the glassware is assembled, he puts a burner in place. The entire assembly looks very similar to the distillery column he’s using to purify his flower extract, though a few steps more complex. With that ready, he takes a large, round-bottomed flask from one of the shelves and sets it in a cast iron bowl.   
After burrowing in a cabinet a moment longer, he pulls out a bundle of cloth and leather and tosses a couple items to Fenris. "Exposure to raw lyrium isn’t healthy for anyone. That cloth there is silk, with a tight enough weave to keep you from inhaling any lyrium dust. Wrap it around your face to cover your nose and mouth and tie it off. Then put on the gloves and apron. When we’re done, everything we’re wearing goes into this sack here so the servants who clean our gear won’t get exposed, either.“

“And then I suppose your plan is for us to stride naked down the hall?” But he obediently reaches up and ties the silk in place, tight across his face, emphasizing the profile without allowing distraction in the details, the cut curves of his jaw and the starkly sculpted nose. The apron follows suit, awkward enough with the chest piece, the gauntlets forced to an unused section of table before he can slip on the gloves. But he does it, efficiently, and without true question or complaint. 

"No, you ninny, the apron goes in the hamper, that’s what it’s for.” Anders huffs in irritation as he ties on his own silk mask, doing his best not to get his hair caught in the knot. He pulls on the gloves then, loose above the wrists and fitting more like leather gauntlets up to his elbows. He opens a locking cabinet, and takes a heavy steel case from a shelf inside, grunting at the weight of it. It has no handles, no visible lock, and it only opens after a surge of magic from Anders’ hand sinks into the metal. Inside the case is a glass canister wrapped in oilcloth. "Alright, here’s where I need your help.“

Fenris clears his throat, quells a quiet comment that it was what Anders was thinking anyway, and steps up to the case. He pauses, then, clearly never a part of Danarius’ experiments this directly before, and raises an eyebrow. In an odd, sort of expectant way. “You wouldn’t consider this cheating?” The way his question is posed Fenris doesn’t actually care, not about to rat out anything, simply curious to Anders’ logic. The same way he wonders why the apprentice hadn’t asked him to pull the box in the first place, if it were so heavy. Engaged, but slightly misused.

"No, would you? If you were involved in a small spill you’d have a burn I could heal. If I was, I’d be comatose or dead. I understand if you want to see me swooning, but I’d rather be able to recover once you’d had your fun.” Anders backs off from the open case, staying well clear but with a good view of his workbench. "I need you to unwrap that canister, twist the lid open, and use this to spoon the raw powder into this tube up to the red line, here.“ Anders slides a steel scoop along the workbench to Fenris. "Once you’ve done this, pour the powder from the cylinder into this flask, here.”

Fenris looks entirely unimpressed, possibly on the verge of rolling his eyes, though he does precisely as he’s told. The powder spills into the measuring cylinder like luminous water, the sound of it quiet but a distinctly different tone from poured sand, a thousand bare whispers of chimes instead of the white noise of glass, just on the edge of hearing and possibly simple imagination. And the elf would have none of it if things were up to him, far more interested in the direct approach and leading with a sword than menial affairs regarding flasks and measurements and pouring. “I only intend to point out that there are better assistants for these tasks.”

“But you’d get upset if I stared at their asses like I’m staring at yours. Alright, let me fit that into place and start the flame. Put the cylinder and the scoop into that basin of oil, if you would.” Anders pushes off from where he leans against the workbench and takes hold of the flask by its neck. He pours a clear fluid from another cylinder and the mixture immediately turns cloudy and bluish. Then he fits the flask into place amongst the tubes and vials, clamps it, and sets the iron bowl under it to distribute the heat from the burner. "If you hate this so much, I’ll look elsewhere for help. But you need to understand it would mean spending long hours behind closed doors with other slaves. That’s alright with you?“

It takes a few moments of silence, the scoop and glass set into the oil before he responds, both sinking slowly until they’re swallowed up. “It doesn’t matter ‘what’s alright with me’. I wasn’t aware that was your point, my apologies for the misinterpretation.” Not that he sounds particularly sorry. Nor does he irritated, the words rolled off his tongue by habit and little else.

/Yes it does./” Anders snaps, frowning sharply. "How do you manage to be such a stubborn pain and still sound submissive?“ Anders shakes his head, occupying himself with sealing the lyrium powder up in its case again. When he’s done, he sighs and almost tears the mask from his face, stuffing the used protective gear into the linen sack. "Anyhow, that’s all, you’re free to go about your day.”

“Yes ser.” The last word isn’t even lost on him, a quiet addition. Fenris is far more methodically precise about it, gloves off, reaching back to untie the apron, then the silk falls from his face, expression perhaps duller than when it’d been put on in the first place. As he crosses to put the protective gear away then back to fetch his gauntlets he pauses midstep, fights a instinctual ‘is there anything else’, and turns to leave.

“I’d like it if you called me by name.” Anders has his eyes on Fenris’s back as the slave turns for the door. His words are muted, solemn, maybe even with a note of apology.

Fenris pauses, again, half-turns back to stare at the apprentice silently. At length, clearly struggling under the quiet demeanor, a glance downward, the gaze drifting and chin turning along the floor at the man’s shoes, and finally back up. “Anders.” And then, added quickly, “-do you wish anything else?”

“I’d like to see you later. If you’re available.” Anders speaks evenly now, watching Fenris with an unflinching gaze. "Thank you for you help. You may go.“


	25. Chapter 25

Regardless of the weather outside, bright with a crisp sea breeze in the air to make things just on the edge of too cold, the garden remains constant. At this hour in particular, exactly mid day, the windows darken the mansion only to pour in through the sunroof, a column of golden-white edged by the gossamer field of magic protecting it, bugs flitting among the plants and caught in the rays like little balls of fire dancing.  
It also makes a perfect place to catnap along one of the sunwarmed stone benches, which is why Carnality pouts when he slinks down the stairs only to find the apprentice already there. “Being a diligent pupil? A pity.”

 

Anders is, in fact, occupying that very bench, eyes half lidded and the sunbeams bathing his belly in gentle warmth. When Carnality speaks, Anders raises his middle finger without missing a beat. “That’s right, I’m studying the inner surface of my eyelids,” he drawls. “So far the data has been inconclusive.” He lies there with one leg up, the other dangling off the bench, and his hands folded under his head.

Carnality hesitates for a split moment as he passes into the garden, not from the layer of magic but the lush grass, all those tiny little blades like a brush at the pads of his feet ticklish and overwhelming at first touch, each time. But only the barest falter before he continues, until he comes to a stop at the bench that’s supposed to be his. The demon’s pout turns to a small scowl, if only because this leaves the grass as his only option. For a moment he shadows Anders’ face, considering what a tragedy it is to waste hands with gestures when they could be doing so much else. But he relents, an incredibly put out sigh, and he stretches out onto his stomach in the grass alongside the bench with his arms jutting out in front of him, crossed neatly under his chin. “Then what are you possibly doing here when you could be fucking that pet of yours.” Of course, Carnality knows the answer to that anyway, as he left Fenris and Danarius in the master’s lab just moments ago.

“He isn’t my pet.” Anders says it not defensively, but earnestly, enough that the impulse to make eye-contact with the demon drives him to sit up. “Or at least… that’s not what I was trying for. But from the looks I’ve seen you give me, I think you know that very well. Anyhow, much as I’d rather be balls deep inside him, he’s busy in the Master’s laboratory, no doubt assisting with the kind of things that will keep him awake at night.” At that, Anders lowers his face, sadness sweeping over him like a sudden layer of clouds.

Carnality looks up at the movement, eyes clear and vibrantly yellow but partly obscured by a strong horned brow. And he groans, with a small shake of his head as he plops his chin back into place. “So full of /emotions/ over him, how can you stand it. Mmm. Tell me what you’ve noticed about him. I want to see how clever you’ve become… or if you’re still a simpleton that should be thrown back to Ferelden like so much bad catch.”

“I’ve learned he’s fond of you. Can’t imagine why.” Anders casts a glare in Carnality’s direction at being called a simpleton. “He has no concept that his own happiness might be worth anything in itself. Not that he doesn’t let one know when he’s displeased, which is often. He cares for me, but he doesn’t understand, I think, what it is to have a lover. He just understands being a ‘pet’, as you so demeaningly call him, and tries to show his affection by being a good, submissive one. It works out better if I take those gestures the way they’re meant, or at least it has so far. But it’s frustrating. He seems to think the best thing he can do for a master is hide all his feelings, deny even having needs or wishes of his own. Danarius can see through him easily, but I haven’t yet learned how.”

“If you haven’t figured out why he likes me, you haven’t been paying attention~” Carnality singsongs his response, but then adds, a hint more seriously, “But you’re getting better.” The demon stretches his arms out in front of him and rolls over, the thin smalls chained at his waist barely keeping in place, clawed hands resting along his stomach. “I call him a pet because that’s what he likes being. How much does he talk to you?”

“Heh. Then maybe I should amend my speech. He says you have a 'higher position’ but the way he talks about you, I think you’re actually his -friend-. He can talk to you for the same reasons I can… neither of us is likely to end up drawing Danarius’s ire and being punished for it.” Anders grips the edge of the bench with his hands, body slightly bent for him to watch Carnality with idle appreciation. Considering the demon’s physical form is entirely an illusion put on for mortals, it makes sense that the demon constantly behaves as if on display. “He talks to me… more than he does to most anyone else, I gather. It can take some work to draw him out, and there are times he’ll dig his heels in and claim to have no preference about things. Or times he’ll helpfully suggest that I go jump in a lake.”

“He does that so /well/, doesn’t he. Hmm. But there’s another reason. Imagine before you came here, whyever would he talk to /me/?” Carnality pretends to think on it himself, drawing up a hand to tap a claw and a pad lightly across his lips. “I suppose he could just want the attention. His body does sound so… charming, after all.” A faint shiver trails down his stomach at that word, but he shakes his head with a tsk. “Mm no, that’s not it. He has Danarius /and/ an apprentice, now. Unless he’s just a whore at heart.” And he smiles, broadly, clearly teasing at this point with obvious wrong answers but looking up to Anders, expectant below the humor.

“He’s not a whore, and if you try to tell me he is I really will stick my fingers in my ears and walk away saying 'La la la!’ But the fact that Danarius doesn’t, erm… reciprocate… might have a little to do with it.” Anders frowns a bit as color rises in his cheeks. “And the rest of the slaves don’t trust him, for obvious reasons.”

“Good, much better.” If a man has ever put a sound to a purr, this is it, the demon’s words so pleased and honeyed. “So you’ve noticed how Danarius leaves him rather wanting. And why do you think they don’t trust him?”

“Because Danarius can read him like an open book. An ability I envy, I might add. Even if something slipped by him, Fenris is utterly loyal and he adores his Master. He has every reason to, really. And then, Fenris’s status as the Favorite has him set apart from the other slaves, even if the rest were to change.” When Carnality manages to slip a purr into his voice, Anders’ fingers flex with the urge to reach out and scratch at his head… not the kind of touch, he supposes, that the demon generally solicits.

“Good… but there’s more to it than that.” Carnality yawns, just as catlike, almost genuine, then levels a look upward at the apprentice. “But I can really only lead you along so far for free. Come here.”

“'kay.” Anders slides off the bench and sits astride Carnality’s slender hips, then flops down onto the demon in full. He wriggles his hands and arms up under Carnality’s shoulders to get him in a loose hug, and his hands in the demon’s wispy, ever-shifting hair. He’s wondered what that would feel like between his fingers for a while now. “This is better, yes?”

Carnality hooks an arm under and around Anders’ waist, pulls him closer, sighs so contently. “Like smelling fresh roast duck. Close enough for now.” The demon turns his head to bring his lips to the man’s ear, the point of one horn digging a short line into the dirt just so he can lick that satiny skin just behind Anders’ earlobe, then presses a kiss bound with a whisper. “You’ve seen him, apprentice. Fenris is finely crafted even amongst his kin. Surely, of all of them, there would be someone willing to brave getting tattled on for the chance to be mounted by /that/.” He smiles at the thought, of course he does, the quick breeze from his nose. “Unless there’s something more than just telling his master.”

Anders makes a murmuring sound of approval when Carnality’s tongue traces the curve of the back of his ear. He nuzzles in, freshly shaven enough that his stubble barely scrapes at Carnality’s shoulder, but then, when Carnality speaks, he sighs and goes still. “You’re talking about what they do, aren’t you. What they do in the laboratory. Danarius buying slaves by the cartload and then being ‘busy’ for weeks. What he needs a skilled warrior with excessive strength to help him do… and what causes the noise that keeps Fenris from sleeping.” Anders shuts his eyes. “Always such grim topics with you. It’s really a mood-killer, you know.”

 

“Oooh, poor dove. If we were in less company I would kiss it and make you all better.” Instead he kisses Anders’ ear, nibbles on the lobe and licks at the edges of it in a quick swirl, a teasing mockery of what he’d do with a cock given half the chance. “I only tell you these things because it makes you sharper, and you’re so delicious when you’re clever. What do you want to know, then? There is little of this house that would please you.”

“So I’ve gathered. I want to know how to -help-. Not help with whatever Danarius’s business is, but perhaps at least… not be a contributing factor to the underlying misery and fear. Maybe even to make things better.” Anders drags his fingers along Carnality’s scalp, the touch of his 'hair’ like some ghost of a sensation. “I also want to know… in general terms, I guess, if Dianna’s alright. If there’s anything she might need that I could help her with, or any way I can make her life a little easier.”

“/Dianna/?” Carnality’s eyebrows raise at that, or as much as they can with his bone set brow, and when he silently chuckles his breath is cool to Anders’ ear. “Do you intend to try turning the river by picking up each pebble one by one?”

“I don’t intend to try turning any rivers. I’m nothing but a pebble myself and I’m under no delusions to the contrary. But maybe it’s not so outrageous for one pebble to help another? What’s it to you anyhow, Carnality? You seem quite content with things as they are.”

“Oh, I am. This is a rather comfortable arrangement I have, in fact. But I’m not stupid, and you’re not a pebble. This house will only last so long. In any case… I haven’t the slightest of what you could do for her. She isn’t the host of the household for nothing.”

“Then perhaps you have a helpful suggestion about what I’m supposed to do with this metaphorical river? Or at least a solicitation?” Anders shifts his weight to one side, sliding off of Carnality to lie snug against his side, a leg and an arm draped over the demon comfortably. "I would free every slave in Minrathous if I could. But I can’t mutiny against Danarius.“ Anders speaks in a low voice, his hand lifting to send subtle eddies of magic into the air and muffle his words even further. "I can’t defy him and I doubt I can inspire in him a change of heart. I doubt there is much I can do until and unless I become a Magister myself.”

Carnality spreads his fingers in the air at Anders’ words, a small firework of revelation. “Ah. I was wondering how long that would take you.” His lips curl slowly into a smile, one quite pleased and somewhat sinisterly amused at how dangerous some of these words would be if overheard. “He would have you killed for anything less. Or worse, I imagine. I also imagine that you stand to gain quite a lot if you bide your time. The Magister has no family to speak of, and he certainly can’t pass it to a slave elf.”

Anders lifts his head to look Carnality in the eyes, but as usual, the demon is inscrutable. Anders is certain that anything he might read in his expression would have been put there deliberately. "I am fond of the man, whatever I think of his practices. I … maybe I have no way of knowing but… he’s not -entirely- cynical in his kindnesses. It would all be much simpler had I thought he was some corrupt, soulless Maleficar. He isn’t.“ Anders pauses, a bitter quirk to his lips. "He’s a cunning, genteel, flawed, libidinous Maleficar. Entirely different creature.” Under Anders words, behind the sad look in his eyes, is a yearning for the demon to draw upon, unspooling it like thread. He wants it to be simple. He wants to succumb to an uncomplicated love and loyalty to the old Magister, akin to what he thinks Fenris must feel.

“Decide what you want.” That hand, lightly curling as the motion wanes, more of a talon clutching at the sky before the demon’s palm drops to his chest limply. “Have you asked her if she suffers her life or not?”

“I doubt she would give me a straight answer to a question like that.” Anders settles his head against the front of Carnality’s shoulder once more. "You -are- rather like a large furless cat,“ he muses aloud, brushing aside the weightier subject.

Carnality raises an eyebrow, a hard expression for him but there nonetheless to some extent. “I wasn’t aware cats wanted to do anything to spend quality time with your manhood. Or that they’re who you would ask for advice regarding a certain unhealthy obsession with elves.”

"If you were aiming for quality time bouncing on my cock, what are we doing in the garden? I mainly meant the way you seem to soak up attention like a dry sponge, however.” Anders trails his fingertips along Carnality’s torso, over his chest and belly. "And, really, a desire demon criticizing -me- for unhealthy obsessions?“

“My obsessions are /far/ from unhealthy, dove. You’re all incredibly entertaining and I hear you think about food just as often. Does that make you obsessed with pie, or a freshly cooked fish with perfectly crisped edges and full of spices?” The demon takes a slow, deep breath under the touch, curves upward towards it then down with a content sigh. “‘Attention’ makes for a nice holdover, at least. And you’re telling me everything you want.”

"Am I? What do I want, then, aside from apparently a bed full of elves.” Anders rolls his eyes, fingers skimming over to Carnality’s hip and the top of his thigh.

“Two is well enough, I’m sure.” Carnality sits up, or at least as much as he can, propped by only one arm and midsection in a sharp curve that would likely be uncomfortable for anyone else. But it certainly looks nice. He stares at Anders features from there, studying them, calmly delving deeper without the critical half-panic Fenris has when he tries the same. “You’ve thought about it, and you only deny yourself to keep from hurting him. Am I wrong?”

Anders looks away, unable to meet that stare. Instead he lets his gaze settle on the curve and twist of Carnality’s midsection. “You’re not wrong. Don’t slip that to him in one of your games, he doesn’t deserve to be hurt that way. He deserves so much better than … than me.”

The demon shrugs on that one arched shoulder, a rare no smile to his lips or in his eyes. “I wouldn’t. That wolf already suffers more than the sweet taste of his lyrium-spiced skin can cover.” Carnality tips his head to one side, the movement somewhat heavy from his horns, “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you become something he does deserve?”

“Be a better man, you mean? I’ve been trying.” Anders pushes himself upright as well, though without a fraction of the demon’s grace. He pulls his robes straighter on his body. “I don’t know that I’m succeeding but I’m trying.”

The demon only shrugs again at this, his point suddenly a little less clear, his smile returning. It could only be gone for so long before settling back into place, just as it always belonged. “What I really mean is that you should argue with him less and fuck him more. Or let him suck on you, he’s rather talented at it. A natural gift, you know, Danarius never taught him a thing. Except perhaps to be less eager and have manners about it.”

“/Really/, now?” Even with pink rising in his cheeks Anders regards Carnality with avid interest. He shifts his robes to try and obscure the bulge threatening to tent them in his lap. “Believe me, demon, he will never have to ask twice if he wants his mouth anywhere on me. Or my dick anywhere in him. How’s that?”

Carnality straightens further, shifts his weight to his hips and when he straddles the apprentice’s lap it’s as Fenris, with an uncharacteristically mischievous smile as he plants his palms to shoulders to push Anders back down. “You said you wanted to know how Danarius reads him. If you wait for him to ask, you may be waiting for some time.”

 

Anders falls back, naked longing on his face as Carnality takes the guise of the bodyguard. “Then clue me in. The only thing I’ve figured out so far is this one look he has… this way that he peeks up at you from under his eyebrows.” Anders’s voice rumbles, a growl of lust as he remembers seeing Fenris look at him that way, head down, through the haze of steam in his bath chamber. “Like he wanted to be mine,” he sighs.

That key smile doesn’t falter a moment but the demon rolls Fenris’ hips down, presses them together to tease himself along Anders’ arousal. “He does want to be yours. So much so. So if that’s what he wants…” The facade of an elf leans in, leans close, drops his jaw to draw out his tongue and lick the edges of the man’s lips, “..then perhaps you should own him? At least, in bed. You can teach him your proper ways of freedom afterwards.”

Anders is panting when Carnality’s tongue teases the edges of his lips. His full erection is flush against Carnality’s body and Anders can feel the slowly spreading warmth of his own precum staining his smalls. His eyes are unfocused, pupils wide and dark, and he moans out loud at the demon’s words. “Maker, yes… Andraste’s sweet breath I want him to be mine…” He pulls at ‘Fenris’s’ belt, or the illusion of it, too desperate to be deft with the buckles. “And as for you, I want you on your knees.”

“Well in that case, perhaps I’ll show you some of those eyes you want to see so much.” Carnality sits up, grabs Anders’ hands and knits their fingers as he straightens and stands, pulling the apprentice with him. One hand loosens and slips away while the other remains, the demon taking one slow step behind another to lead them out of the garden and to the smaller library, that room only used for parties or formal guests. With a small blink the expression shifts on Fenris’ face, smile fading and eyes intense as they gaze on the apprentice, small flickers of movement as they pass over his features.

Anders kicks the door shut with his heel and grabs for the straps of Fenris’s armor. this time he lets himself get lost in the illusion. He pulls the demon up close and kisses him, forceful and open-mouthed. He pushes his knee between Carnality’s legs, wedges them apart, and pulls him in until he can feel the demon’s hard cock pressing against his thigh. “Strip us. I’m out of patience.”

Fenris is naked, just so easily so, the metal that ran cold to the touch now a bare memory and his erection just as hard as his strained pants promised it would be. While Anders’ clothes remain they don’t for long, the demon’s hands deft and quick the same way an old lover’s would be, the same way Fenris’ hands are beginning to be, confident where each button is placed and the exact pressure needed to undo it. The apprentice’s chest is bared then his robes shucked from his shoulders, Fenris’ hands drawing under the fabric to roll them off, then dragging down bare skin in their wake to the man’s pants, a few small jerks and then down to free him. The demon sinks to his knees, eager and impatient as he takes Anders’ thick shaft in hand; he spares a look upward past white hair before he leans in and closes his mouth on the waiting head with a hard, needy suck.

Anders shakes his shoulders, then his hips, to let his clothes fall to the floor with a rustle and a whisper that’s lost under the sound of his breathing. When Carnality takes him in his mouth, his jaw drops and he sucks in a gasp of cool air. Anders is as eager as the demon is, trying to hold back the urge to thrust into that mouth, reigning it in and shifting his weight restlessly on the balls of his feet. He watches Fenris’s face, such a perfect mimicry that his head swims with the memory of Fenris dropping to his knees for him like this. He brings his hands to Carnality’s head, urging him to take more of him, to suck him hard and deep. “Forgive me,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “I’m not going to last long like this.”

Fenris groans an approval filled with aching pleasure, half illusion and half Carnality’s true response in the elf’s voice. Only the barest coaxing and his head sinks farther, presses his lips tightly along the warm dry shaft. He pauses along veins, lips lightly teasing them before continuing, until his mouth presses flush to his own hand. Easily he swallows at the tip, manages not to gag as he gulps with another thrumming moan. After a few lingering moments he pulls away, only to start bobbing his mouth along Anders’ cock with an enthusiastic hunger, small sounds of his saliva slurping as he loses suction.

Anders’s hands slip from Fenris’s hair, or the illusion of it, to the demon’s shoulders, his upper torso curled as he braces for balance. His knees are shaking lightly, threatening to buckle, and his toes curling in his boots. His hips feel both too loose and too tight at the same time, tense but so eager to thrust, and he steals just a quick, small stroke into Carnality’s willing throat. He’s dripping into that sweet mouth and he knows it, and he moans out loud as the demon starts to bob his head and milk him with his lips and his tongue. Anders watches the demon’s beautiful, borrowed face even as his eyes lose focus, and his moans nearly turn to shouts. He comes hard and long, every pulse of pleasure seeming to travel with deliberate, processional slowness from the buried root of his cock to its flexing, fat tip.

The frenzied bobbing immediately takes more time, draws up towards the tip with more purpose. The sucking is no longer rough and powerful but just enough to hug Fenris’ mouth to the spasming shaft almost lovingly, tasting the sweat of Anders’ velvety skin as much as his spilling cum that freely drips from one corner and draws a new line down the sculptural chin, the musky scent of exertion intoxicating his breath. Somewhat reluctantly he keeps moving, lips grinding to milk the orgasm, and as it begins to wane he teases his tongue at the tip, taps at the slit to coax out one spasm after another, just on the edge of overwhelming.

Anders leans heavily on the demon’s shoulders, his body twitching hard with each tease from Carnality’s tongue. His cries of pleasure turn sharp and pleading, his body writhing but not outright pulling away. He isn’t sure if he’s in agony or ecstasy, but he feels as if Carnality has found every nerve in his body, pulled them taut, and strums him like a lute. Every tap and tickle from the demon’s tongue is answered with another slow throb from his cock, a resounding pleasure in him that becomes too much to endure and yet too much to resist.

Carnality finally gives in, finally pillows his tongue firmly to Anders’ cock to lick it clean without provoking it further, and lets it slip from his lips. Fenris is no longer there and the demon takes his place as if he’d never been any different, cum still traced down his chin as he looks up with a content smile and a hand lazily thrusting along his own erection. “Let’s make this a habit, shall we.”

Anders drops to his knees almost into Carnality’s lap. He lunges in, mouth open, to suck his own cum off the demon’s chin, sloppy with his eagerness. “Let me finish you,” he murmurs, slurring his speech without meaning to. His fingers wrap around Carnality’s shaft and match the pace of the demon’s own hand, squeezing and tugging on each upstroke. But beyond the movements of his hand and arm, Anders is spent and limp, propped up against Carnality’s side and chest, stubbly chin on the demon’s shoulder and lidded eyes struggling to stay open.


	26. Chapter 26

Anders coughs himself awake. He screws up his nose in disgust at the taste of the slimy wad of phlegm suddenly filling his mouth, and surges out of bed to spit it into a used towel. He calls his magic and feels it pulse through him in soothing waves, but even though it makes his breathing easier, he’s been coughing like this periodically since morning. With this being the sixth time he’s healed himself, he has no reason to think magic is going to purge the sickness this time either. He’d hoped curling up in bed early would help, and after asking one of the household slaves to keep the fire in his hearth built up he’d crawled under his blankets for some fitful slumber. He had missed dinner, not that he had any appetite to speak of, and his head feels heavy, his thoughts sluggish, and the beginnings of a headache threatening him with the occasional throb at his temples. He sniffles loudly and rubs at his nose, realizing it’s starting to feel a little raw.

 

The apprentice’s absence during dinner hadn’t gone unnoticed. Danarius hardly did, himself oft to skipping a meal while working himself too hard, a slave stopping by with a small meal that he would likely eat well after it cooled, but Fenris knew better. Anders had no reason. The guard had toyed with himself then, not that he paid so much attention to the apprentice’s comings and goings so closely, but certainly it was his job to relatively know where everyone was at any given moment. The masters of the house, at the very least. A quick glance to Dianna, her curious look back, her I assume /you/ knew, was all he needed.  
The moment he’s freed Fenris leaves. The lab is glanced through first, then the study, their doors both open and coldly empty, then the library, the room dark with no windows or lights, and finally he rests his hand on the door handle to the man’s bedroom. It always felt strange, boldly entering without asking. There was always something needling in the back of his mind, that Anders had preoccupied himself with someone else. And he had no idea why he worried so much, when the thought never crossed his mind when it came to Danarius, or the fact that one of the demons was on his dick now and then.  
The curled up mass in the bed makes him pause, definitely only the apprentice, but then why.. Fenris clears his throat, quietly.

When Anders draws in his breath to greet Fenris, he triggers a short coughing fit, and that ball under the blankets curls up tighter for a moment. Finally he raises his head, cowled by the fluffy down duvet, and he looks at Fenris through tired, puffy eyes. And then, in spite of his cough, his aches, his sour stomach, his heavy head… he smiles. “You can stay, if you want, but I’m not sure you want whatever I’ve got.”

Fenris seems to ignore the warning and steps in, closing the door behind him. With a small glance cast to the fireplace he unslings the sword from his back, sets it by the door, and only when he’s satisfied that he doesn’t need to tend to the crackling wood he starts forward. He settles on top of the covers, curling up alongside the bundle of an apprentice almost protectively, his forehead pressed lightly to a covered shoulder. “I’ve had it before.” And the silent implication that he wouldn’t mind having it again, to stay at Anders’ side.

“Get in here.” Anders’ voice is muffled, both by the covers and what sounds like a stuffed up nose. “If you’re going to sleep with me I’d like to hold you.” Even with the soft duvet separating them, the magely bundle shifts and scoots until it’s snug against Fenris’s more loosely curled form. The pressure of that body against him, the weight of the head on his shoulder, does more to warm Anders than the fire in the hearth or the goosedown in his blankets. “Amend that. I -need- to hold you,” he adds in much softer tones.

“As you wish.” Fenris sits up after some lingering reluctance, legs shifting under him and crossing as he reaches to his chest. One clasp after another and his high collared vest comes off easily enough, slips past his shoulders and is dropped into a light pile on the floor, leaving his chest bare. He gets up only long enough to pull open the covers and slinks in, tightly bunches the edge along his back as he curls up to Anders again, closer this time, a gentle heat between them and the slave’s lips pressed to the mess of blond hair.

The mage is mostly a warm mass of small, grateful, murmured noises as Fenris settles in against him. He feels that kiss and his heart feels aglow with warmth, strong enough that it makes him wonder how he could have ever doubted that the slave cares for him. “I keep trying to heal myself of this,” Anders murmurs. “But it isn’t working. I feel better for a short time and then, an hour later, I’m worse than I was before.”

Fenris shakes his head, immediately regretting the action as it just serves to nuzzle against the mess of hair tickling his lips and the underside of his nose. Arms crossed loosely across his chest, curled around Anders as much as possible, and he still sighs as if it were some contest to keep his affections in check. “Few mages can cure it so easily. I will fetch the medicine for it tomorrow.”

“That’s reassuring. I was starting to feel rather disappointed in myself.” Anders turns his head, but then lets it drop back to his pillow when he realizes he won’t be able to get a glimpse of Fenris unless he rolls over. “Fenris, may I ask you something?” The elf’s sigh brings to mind something he’s been thinking about in his idle moments, ever since his last ‘chat’ with Carnality.

“Of course.” The words are without hesitation, perfectly executed as a slave, but there’s more weight to them than that. A quiet, settling, calming contentness that seems rare for Fenris, his mind drifting without actually falling asleep.

“Why do you hide your feelings? You seem at times to work so hard to appear stoic. It can be hard for me to see what lies beneath… but I get the impression you want it that way.” Anders settles his hands over Fenris’s, where they rest on his body.

The guard immediately shifts his weight without actually pulling away, letting that movement fill the uncomfortable pause between them. “Because that’s the way it is.” The way he says it is the same way he’d say, 'go to sleep, Anders.’, the way he does when the apprentice has asked a foreigner’s question and puts too much stock in the answer. But in the silence after his words, after mulling it over and deciding it not enough, he adds, “Because it isn’t useful.”

“I… see.” Anders’s hesitant response carries all the opposite meaning. He does mull it over for a while, eyes closed and breathing slow, even if it wheezes in his throat now and then. “You know I don’t need you to be useful. But…” He coughs sharply, midsection turning tight and shoulders heaving. “…it’s your way of giving me your best, unless I’m mistaken. And that.. I’m grateful for.”

Without thinking Fenris moves an arm, hooks it lightly over Anders’ shoulders to pull them closer, the man’s forehead to the hollow of his collarbone. For all the coughing and uneven wheezes the elf’s chest is warm and steady, breathing slowly and deliberately. “My best is accomplishing what you want.”

“There’s nothing of you I don’t want. Some part of me even likes it when you’re cross with me.” Anders holds onto Fenris as the coughing fit passes. His warm breath collects in the small space between his lips and Fenris’s chest. He turns his head when that pool of warmth becomes stifling, and lets the side of his face rest against the bare skin over Fenris’s heart. He can hear the thump and rush of his heart, the thrum of his voice reverberating in his chest.

Fenris tips his head, just a little, enough that the bridge of his nose presses instead to where his lips had been, his chin tightly tucking to his neck. “I apologize, if I’m what you want. You always make me feel so… unfocused.”

“Should I be flattered?” There’s warmth in Anders’ voice, a teasing sort of affection. He kisses Fenris’s chest, but he’s otherwise still and content. “You -should- apologize, though. You’re far more wonderful than anyone has a a right to be.”

A puff of a sigh and Fenris lifts his head, only to bury it against the pillow Anders is nestled against. “Or you’re simply terrible at using me.” he responds dryly, his words just as relaxed for once.

“I’ll use you,” Anders murmurs. “It isn’t all I’ll do with you, that’s all.” He sniffles loudly, then convulses in another fit of coughing. “…when I’m over this damned cough, I’ll 'use’ you and you can tell me how terrible you think I am then.”

A chuckle escapes Fenris as he holds Anders steady, a sound surprised from his lungs, stifled too late, like he hasn’t laughed in years and isn’t sure what to do about it. When it fades he clears his throat, to be rid of it. “If it were up to you I would remain in a bed all day and my sword would rot.”

“I don’t see a problem with that.” For the brief moment it’s allowed to thrive, Fenris’s laugh sounds rich through the wall of his chest. Anders grins. “But if it bothers you I can try and find some people for you to chop up, just for variety’s sake.”

Fenris glances down, even if he can only see blond, and not the eyes he wants to see, his voice cooling. “You don’t need to find anyone. There are plenty of people who would likely rather you dead.”

“Well. We can see if they’ll all line up in an orderly fashion.” Anders lifts his chin at last, shifting in Fenris’s arms until they’re almost nose to nose. “But, why? I didn’t think I’d been here long enough to make enemies.”

 

The guard had the faintest smile crossing his lips, barely there and fading the moment Anders lays eyes on him, nothing deliberate but simply from regarding the question. “You replaced Hadriana. Even with the lie our master crafted, someone from no standing replaced her. The only way she can make herself not the fool is to kill you and claim a teaching accident, thus making you one and Danarius for choosing you. There are others… but they have little reason beyond testing apprentices that peak their interest.”

“The previous apprentice,” Anders says, understanding. “The one nobody talks about. She must have been a piece of work for Danarius to consider me a potential improvement.” A wry smile slants across the apprentice’s lips.

“Mm.” For a moment that small acknowledgment is the only answer he offers, before continuing, “She expected everything to be given to her for no effort, I imagine the same way life has treated her thusfar. And she tended to mistreat property that wasn’t her own.”

Anders is silent, regarding Fenris’s moss green eyes and blinking slowly, drowsily. “Maybe I should see about dealing with her sooner rather than later. They had her type in the Circle, too… noble brats, guaranteed a soft life and an easy harrowing.”

“And how do you intend that? A soft life tends to carry with it dangerous friends and reputation. You have neither, Anders.”

“I have wits and ability,” Anders murmurs. “And a good deal less to lose. As for dangerous friends… that just means that whatever I do, it needs to look like it’s her fault. Get her to take a position no one can afford to defend.” Anders coughs again, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. “I’ll look into it when I’ve got full use of my lungs again.”

Fenris makes a muffled, grumbling sound of displeasure but buries his nose to the pillow just as quickly, shifting his weight to turn towards the mattress but only getting as far as propping himself yet closer against Anders’ shoulder. Somewhere, deep into the pillow, is an added ‘yes ser’, though what preceded it is lost to the bed.

Anders rallies his strength. He rolls the both of them over, pinning Fenris on his back and resting his full weight on top him. Nose to nose with the elf, he gives him an unblinking stare. “Don’t you 'yes, ser’ me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

The movement makes the slave gasp, lips parted as he pulls his gaze sharply to one side and his chin following. For a few silent seconds he remains like that, breath heavier in his chest than Anders is on it. When he finally musters the will to meet the man’s eyes his own begin wary like a trapped cat, then grow bolder as his head turns to fully face Anders, until he dangerously toes the line between confidence and defiance. “Let me do what I was made for.”

“Protect me? Yes, of course.” Anders braces with his elbows, taking more of his own weight, afraid he’s stifling Fenris under him. He doesn’t take his eyes off the elf’s, however. “I place my faith in you.”

The moment the apprentice confirms it Fenris is looking away again, back towards the wall where it’s comfortable and there’s no confrontation. “Thank you,-” His words cut the sentence short, halting and teeth almost clicking closed, before another instinctive 'ser’ falls from them.

Anders only takes that turn of the head as an invitation to kiss Fenris’s cheek. “You’ve already proven yourself so many times,” he murmurs and nuzzles in against Fenris’s neck. “And… it wasn’t my intention to try and supercede your… your purpose? It is just… if you look to me as some kind of Master, I shouldn’t be utterly passive about my circumstances. If you’re going to serve me I want to behave as though I deserve that.”

“Of course.” This time his sentence finishes but the words are murmured. Just an afterthought as Fenris’ head turns back, only because Anders can’t see him when he’s pressed to deeply scarred skin, the tracks along the elf’s neck pale and faintly satiny, ever so gentler against the lips. Something about them feels deep, gouging, not simply surface damage but the glacial edges of wounds carved down to the bone. And his lips remain parted, the air rushing under those scars a little more urgent, and his hand reaching up to rest the edges of his fingers to Anders’ shoulder.

Anders lets his lips peruse the scar-line on the side of Fenris’s neck. With his eyes closed he learns the feel of it, the way the flesh beneath is less yielding, not just the skin but the muscle as well. It makes him envision curving, branching channels of power carved all through Fenris’s body, somehow managing to coexist with his flesh and blood. Then, with his mouth pressed shut against the crook of Fenris’s shoulder, Anders shakes with a few more muffled coughs. 

The barest touch to Anders’ shoulder moves farther, hard set manners overturned by a harsher burned instinct to keep the apprentice well, and he reaches possessively across the blonde’s back. Fenris pulls him close, steadies him with a strong hold, the elf’s chest less gasping and sturdier now, the difference of dawn and dusk in his motions.

Anders notices that sudden change. He turns it over in his mind, thoughts bracketed by throbbing temples, and can’t decide what to make of it. When Fenris’s grip on his shoulders loosens, Anders slides off him, curling up against him but no longer resting the weight of his body on him. “Fenris?”

The guard lets Anders pull away at the smallest resistance, hand limply slipping across skin as shoulders shift back and settle into place at his side. Fenris’ eyes have closed at this point, or only near to it, a sliver of a gaze downward, looking past eyelashes. “Yes?”

“Has Danarius ever punished you?”

Fenris’ brows knit at that, his eyes snapping open. “Why?”

“Sometimes you seem afraid of me. I’m just trying to figure out why.” Anders lifts his head slightly, sniffling loudly. He rubs at his reddened nose.

Fenris settles again at that, muscles relaxing when he hadn’t notice them flinch in the first place, so subtle a tension, brows lightening as his eyes close again. “Because that is the way things are. And because… a slave has much to lose, from spending so much time at their master’s side.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.” Anders’s slender fingers curl over the swell of muscle above Fenris’s collarbone, kneading him gently. He calls his magic almost without a thought, letting it sink beneath the slave’s bronze skin as soothing warmth.

The bone under the muscle rocks forward to the touch, the way a cat would arch in it’s constantly starved ache for attention. “A bodyguard always protects you, and is always the one most in your sight. Is that not clear?”

“You think I would lash out at you just because you’re a convenient target?” Anders’s voice is mild. He brings his other hand to the nape of Fenris’s neck, massaging him there as well with the same gentle surge of warmth and ease. His magic seems to call to itself, those gentle flows stretching to meet one another as if closing a circuit. Soothing warmth spreads across Fenris’s shoulders and back, as if he’s cradled by Anders’s power.

“Not.. convenient, exactly. But my mistakes are more visible and immediately noticed than cold tea.” Fenris sighs, content despite the words coaxed out of him. “You already did.”

“But I meant…” Anders comes up short, sighing. He ducks his head down, burying a wince against the side of Fenris’s chest. “Damn. I am so sorry.”

Fenris would shake his head, but between the warm touch and the fact that Anders wouldn’t see it anyway, he tosses aside the motion, instead tries to carry it in his softened voice. “Do you understand, then? That I have to keep my mind at all times.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I was better than that, I… try to be better. You do know I don’t stop caring about you when I’m angry, or when I’m hurt? I’m not just going to throw you away like rubbish. I couldn’t.” Anders’s magic stutters like a dying candle, and the warmth flowing through Fenris softly dissipates. His arm shifts over Fenris’s body, moving to clutch him tightly. Anders keeps his face pressed in against Fenris’s chest.

The guard remains silent for a short time, lets the night stillness pass over them as he thinks. When he finally speaks the sound barely breaks the veil that had begun to settle, not a whisper but his voice low and calm. “I know that it’s what you want.”

“Good,” Anders answers in a small voice, meek but with gratitude rather than shame. “Thank you.” His cheeks feel warmer for some reason, but he lets his eyes drift shut and tangles the fingers of one hand into Fenris’s soft hair.


	27. Chapter 27

When Anders finally falls asleep it is one like death; that deep, dreamless slumber without stirring a single muscle that one only falls into when their body is otherwise distracted with illness. Fenris is familiar with it, and watches over the apprentice for as long as he can until he finally drifts off himself at some early hour.  
And when the guard wakes Anders is still asleep, a lump under the covers with a faintly wheezing and slow breath. Fenris carefully slips out from the bed, a relatively easy task, and after quietly pulling his clothes back into place he leaves, only crossing the hallway to tell Danarius of their outing. 

 

The curtains in the master bedroom are open, light pouring in through diaphanous drapes still drawn for privacy. Pools of sunlight stretch across the bed, where Danarius is sitting up in his dressing gown, the covers gathered around his waist. He has a cup of hot tea in one hand and a book open on his lap, but he glances to the door as Fenris enters. "Ah, there you are, my pet.“

Fenris dips his head at his master’s words, the faintest edges of a smile at his lips as he closes the door behind him. He crawls onto the bed without further coaxing, the sword left in Anders’ room and not an obstacle now, his movements far more careful as he leans his weight onto the mattress than he was to pull away from the apprentice’s, the tea in his master’s hand barely wavering. After some small shifts to get comfortable Fenris settles on his stomach, stretched out with his head leaning to Danarius’ hip. “I apologize. Anders has fallen ill and I intend to fetch his medicine when he wakes.”

"Ill? Does the boy not claim to be a healer?” Danarius cards his fingers through Fenris’s hair, the movement gentle despite the edge of disgust in his tone. "Why not wait and see if he manages to defeat this ague on his own? I fear there is little hope for the lad if he cannot overcome a common cold.“ Danarius smiles coolly as he puts his tea aside on the bedside table. He rolls the blankets back a bit, inviting Fenris closer. "Still, it wouldn’t do for him to infect the rest of the household. Perhaps I shall have you lock him in his room until he recovers. Or dies.”

“Master..” The elf quiets himself as he slips his legs and then hips under the sheet, arm crossing into a draping hug across Danarius’ waist. Only when he’s leaning back in place does he start again. “…I have reason to believe he has contracted Apprentice Cough.”

Danarius’s hand pauses in Fenris’s hair, giving a slight encouraging press to the back of his head. He pulls the blankets away from his waist, showing a solid erection tenting the thin, fine cotton of his dressing gown. "Ah, of course, my pet. Then I suppose I cannot refuse you this errand… but you shall help me with my morning chore first, yes? Like a good pet.“

“Of course.” But instead of moving his head to tend to the morning wood Fenris pushes himself upward, straightening to his knees. His hips arch to one side, thigh straddling Danarius, and with a roll forward to press them flush to each other his palms prop flat against the headboard. The guard pauses, then, head tipped down but eyes glancing up past his brow and white hair, expectant.

"Do you want me to -order- you to spear yourself on my cock? I threaten to have the apprentice locked up and to throw away the key and all you want to do is bounce on Danarius’s magehood?” The old magister’s face splits in a laughing grin, and the semblance dissolves away, leaving Carnality there, hands on Fenris’s hips as he shakes his head. "That -poor- dove,“ Carnality laughs.

“No,” Fenris drops his head forward, presses a kiss to Carnality’s lips and even lingers there, a small smirk of his own curling between them, and he remains close even when he finishes his answer, “Danarius would never fuck me on a whim, and he wouldn’t let his apprentice die, even if Anders is a fool.”

Carnality cups Fenris’s rear with both long-fingered hands and pushes his hips up against himself. "Just why do you want that fool, little wolf? Do you even know, or is it one of this world’s mysteries?” The demon ducks his head, kissing the curling lines on Fenris’s chin. "And for that matter, why does he want you? He’s a fool but even he knows he’d be better off running from here. He thinks of it often. But he hurts so terribly at the thought of being apart from you that he puts it from his mind.“

The smirk fades and Fenris turns his chin, a flinch that breaks the kiss and his gaze but not their contact. “I can’t answer for him.” His brows knit, troubled in thought as he reaches for some sort of personal, overarching reason and finds none. Anders just is, and Fenris is drawn to him for reasons he can’t put a finger to easily. “Because… because nobody else wants to stand at my side.”

Carnality tilts his head, leaning back to regard Fenris’s face, and possibly study something beyond just his features, something only a spirit would be able to see. "It is true,” he states. "He does. If you wish to love one who loves you, you won’t find greater fervor anywhere. He would tear himself apart with what he feels.“ The demon smiles the indulgent smile of someone remembering a banquet. "He’s -delicious-. I do hope Danarius keeps him.”

Fenris gulps, quietly, and his arms crumple until his elbows hit the headboard behind them, his body all the closer for it and pressed along the demon’s chest. “He would be better finding someone else.”

Carnality’s arms move upward then, wrapping Fenris’s lean body in a hug. "But he wants you. This doesn’t please you, to be adored?“

“While everyone else shies away from me. He doesn’t know what they know. He adores a lie he finds conveniently beautiful.” As if he could sink any further Fenris’ head dips, until his forehead rests on the demon’s shoulder. “…and I the fool for thinking to follow him instead of being satisfied with what I have.”

"He knows more of you than you think.” Carnality murmurs the words in Fenris’s ear, lifting one hand to stroke his hair. "He is a fool but not a hopeless one. When I cast pearls of wisdom at his feet he knows enough to pick them up and string them together… much to my delight. But who is to say the beauty he sees is a lie? Perhaps the harshness you call truth is the real lie. Either way… his -desire- is real. As real as yours is.“

“Enough of your riddles.” The snap is weak though, a growling grumble pressed to the demon’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, he will care or he won’t.” And if Fenris knows him, Anders will, only a matter of time before he finds out and leaves. “Did you want to fuck me or not?”

"Now you’re the one being foolish.” Carnality’s nose wrinkles in a delicate sort of distaste. "I have been trying to tell you – /he knows./ Now get out of your clothing, I hate having to be so blunt about such matters. You owe me some recompense.“ Carnality’s body rises and turns, rolling Fenris under him and across the plush pillows at the head of the master’s bed.

Despite his mood Fenris doesn’t fight their movement, even reaches down to work out of his pants, shimmy them down his thighs. “He knows what, demon.”

"What you do in your master’s laboratory. Why the other slaves won’t touch you.” Carnality’s deft fingers slip open the buttons on Fenris’s vest, one by one. "He knows, and he cares, but he wants you even so.“ The demon’s face twists in inward-turned annoyance. "I hope you appreciate all this disgusting earnestness you’ve milked from me. Don’t think I will always be so generous. A demon needs to eat.”

Clothes shoved to his knees and Fenris rolls his shoulders, arms pulling back to slip out of his vest and leave it under him, and once his arms are free he raises a hand to draw through the back of Carnality’s wisping hair. He pulls them together into a kiss, a short one and too teasing for either of them before he lets his head drop back to the pillow. “And you’ll tell Danarius where I’m going when we’re done here.”


	28. Chapter 28

The mug of tea cupped in Anders’s hands is nearly finished. He leans against the bottom post of the staircase’s balustrade, looking a shade paler than usual and noticeably red around the nose, but otherwise well enough. He’s becoming better at keeping mental notes about the presence of the servants in the household, and he’s aware that he’s being watched from a distance, and that Dianna will probably step into the atrium to pour him a fresh mug the moment he sets his cup down. He has seen Danarius once today, the Magister greeting him on the way from his study to the library and showing some genial concern over his cough. Fenris, he’s been assured, will know just how to treat him, and he’s given the bodyguard leave to tend to Anders for the next couple of days.

Fenris clears his throat as he sets down the stairs, from necessity rather than announcing himself. Now that they’re leaving the mansion his armor is complete, from the heavy chestplate and gauntlets to the heavier sword slung to his back, with each passing day that black leather looks a bit more tired from holding the weight. But for all the cold metal covering him something warmer is there, the way his hair has been brushed into place, the heat to the elf’s cheeks and lips and almost too pointedly calm breath. The guard stops at Anders’ side, pauses a gaze on him for only so long. “The carriage should be waiting. Are you ready?”

Anders looks at Fenris with his fine brows lifted, his head tilted and his brown eyes full of scrutiny. After a moment he begins to smile a vulpine smile, and he hooks his fingers around the top edge of Fenris’s breatplate to yank him closer. Cold be damned, he covers Fenris’s mouth with his own, his kiss hungry and demanding and lasting as long as he can manage, lacking the ability to breath through his nose at the moment. When it breaks, he’s panting for breath and grinning. 

When they part Fenris clears his throat again, fist to lips and making a meek attempt at clearing the sudden self consciousness washing over him. His head ducks away as he notices Dianna watching them, broadest smile across her face, and a faint blush crossing the flush already there. “I’ll be sure to order enough for both of us. We should move on.”

“As you say.” Anders is still grinning broadly. He glances Dianna’s way, as if to share with her the laughter he doesn’t quite give voice to. For the moment, it truly feels like he’s among friends. “Maybe sure you stock up on what you gave that demon, too. I wanted some of that myself.”

Fenris is all too eager to pull the door open to the mansion, and at the very least escape Dianna’s watch. She’ll surely tell everyone about it later, but he sets it from his mind. Now they’re somewhat more private, closing the distance to the carriage out front, only the driver to hear them as he steps to one side for Anders to get in. “I wasn’t aware that you were in any condition to.” And from the corner of his eye he swears he sees a few slaves from the kitchen, stealing a view from the dining room window.

Anders manages to get his grin to a more subdued level, and he looks at Fenris sidelong, his brows still lifted with flirtatious interest. "If I’m well enough to go to market I’m well enough to b–“ A spasm of coughing cuts his words short, and possibly gives lie to his point. "Well. As long as you’re on top. Have you ever heard of ‘reverse chevalier’?” He sits back on the carriage bench, grinning again.

The question just earns Anders a drawn eyebrow as Fenris signals to the carriage driver and closes the door. “No.” For some reason the guard has no problem deadpanning his responses as long as they’re not being watched. “Do you take particular enjoyment in embarrassing me in public? Or trying to make me ill, for that matter.”

“Some. Mostly I think you’re irresistibly beautiful when you’ve just been fucked. Don’t think you can walk up to me with those bedroom eyes and rosy cheeks and not have me doing everything in my power to kiss you.” Even with Fenris’s stoic visage reasserting itself, the look Anders gives him positively smolders. “Are you truly angry with me?”

The guard pauses, even crosses his arms, but can’t answer that question like he wants without it being an outright lie. But saying no would encourage the man. Fenris glances out the window, awkwardly, and wondering how Danarius manages to never put him into such a position. “I only wish you could have restrained yourself until the rest of the household wasn’t watching.”

Anders looks puzzled, even a bit crestfallen, at that. “I didn’t realize you were ashamed to be seen with me.”

Fenris’ gaze shoots back, his response coming to his lips before he can think properly. “No, that isn’t true. I only…” The words fade as his mind kicks in, realizing what he’s saying and that perhaps he should stop before spitting out something he’d regret. “I’m unused to being so…/blunt/ in public, forgive me. I have no qualms being yours.”

Anders eases a moment, but he doesn’t answer until another fit of coughing works itself out. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I can try to be more discrete. I suppose it’s just that… I’ve never been able to be open about desiring someone, caring for someone. Not until now. I suppose I can get carried away with it.”

The carriage lurches as it mounts onto the main road from the smoother magister filled hightown, the stumble of the wheels leaning Fenris forward until he props his elbows to his thighs. He uses the moment to let his eyes slide back out the window as familiar buildings pass, and the slave auction hall comes into view. “How many have you-….that was forward, I apologize.”

“I think I like it when you’re forward.” As the carriage jostles its way along the stone streets he sprawls back on the bench, at ease apart from the occasional rubbing at his nose. “I’ve been with more than a few. But there were only two I cared about, before you. I doubt I’ll ever see either of them again. I doubt Namaya even wants to see me after the way I ran out on her in Amaranthine. For all the good it did me.”

When Fenris meets Anders’ eyes again the transition is slower, too aware when the last was not at all, cautious, perhaps even wary of what he would see on the apprentice’s expression. And at the encouragement, he decides to be forward. The question is beyond idle curiosity, firm and important to match the elf’s usual intensity. “Why did you leave her?”

“The Templars came for me. I don’t know if it was that I left or that I lingered too long… she was with a gang of thieves and the Templars brought the city guard down on them hard, all because she sheltered me. I ran… they just caught up with me in Highever, starving and freezing with winter setting in.” Anders’ expression changes as he speaks, not entirely severe but closing in. “I was imprisoned after that, but she still managed to get a letter smuggled in. Don’t come back, it said.”

“I suspect she may have had reason, then…” Fenris trails off at that, a brief glance away to some empty corner of the carriage while he collects his mind around that. “She likely would have been pressured by the gang if they were all suffering for someone they didn’t care about. And the other?”

“The mentor I studied under before my Harrowing. A senior enchanter, Karl Thekla.” Anders lets out a slow breath, looking happier, if a bit wistful. “I ended up under his tutelage when I was sixteen. But when my apprenticeship was done, he ended it.” He gazes away through the carriage window, looking at the slivers of blue sky he can see between tall buildings, and above the roofs. “Is there anywhere we can go that’s a good, long ride away from the manor? I’ve never got laid in carriage before, have you?”

Fenris leans back in his seat, head tipping to one side though his critical gaze doesn’t falter. Soften perhaps, with Anders no longer looking at him, his eyes free to glance over the apprentice’s body, his pose, the expression crossing his face. “I’ll… look into locations for you.” Though by his words Fenris already has places in mind, just not ones he’ll mention now. “You should focus on resting.”

“I’m /tired/ of–” Anders covers his mouth with his fist as he coughs until he nearly gags. “…resting. But you’re sweet to fret over me like this.” Anders glances at Fenris, suspecting the bodyguard won’t take the compliment. “Come to my bed like you did last night and I think I could manage some rest.”

“Of course.” The answer is more than slave formality, accepted without thought needed, but before anything else can leave the guard’s lips the carriage comes to a stop, and he stands to open the door and step out to hold it. “Unfortunately, medicinal supplies do not fall under distant locations.”

 

“Is this apothecary going to have a ready-made curative, or do I get to brew my own back home?” Anders pushes himself up off the bench and out of the carriage. He looks up at the shingle above the door while he straightens his robes.

The storefront is small, with large windows in front and the same cozy appearance one would expect more from a bookstore. Above it the stone sign is fading, and says no more of a title than what the store is. The neglect seems simply because there is no need to repaint it, enough customers are milling inside the shop and picking up small glass containers from the shelves and racks.   
Fenris holds the door. “Either. Enough apprentices fall ill with it to not trust them with the remedy.”

Anders steps inside. He resists the urge to grope Fenris in passing, but he lets his knuckles brush across the bodyguard’s hip, casual enough to pass off as an accident. The air inside the shop smells mostly of elfroot, and a few other herbs Anders knows. He gravitates towards one wall, where dried and fresh herbs in large glass jars are on display. A brass balance and a stack of paper sacks are nearby, for anyone wishing to help themselves to a portion.

If Fenris notices he doesn’t react to it, drops his hand to release the door behind them without a word to it.   
The best looking jars, the ones nearest the windows and most polished, are predictably the most expensive. Their prices make them no less popular, and for good reason, the contents inside the freshest and most vibrant of the store, as if they were picked this morning. Some likely were, but even jars full of finely ground contents take on bright enough hues they could be used for paint, from a canary yellow labelled as nirn tree root, to blues of ground blue stars, to a deep peppery red of several things that apparently need no label at all, simply a price.

Anders leans in to look at some of the unlabeled jars, checking to see if the label is just somewhere he initially missed. "What is this? I’m going to assume it’s not paprika.“ He shrugs.

Fenris follows Anders’ gaze, and when his lands on the group of jars, all red tones but each distinct from the next, the small but genuine snarl that curls his lip is rare. And far rarer still in public. But it’s there, disgusted, and he averts his eyes to put his expression back in check To something more uninterested, but the best he manages is a cold wall. “I believe they call it Ferelden Wild Horse. They claim several uses for various organs and bones.”

Anders only looks perplexed at that. "But there aren’t any wild horses in Ferelden. Maker, please tell me that isn’t ground dried mabari.” He recoils a bit from the shelf of jars. The snarl on Fenris’s lips, though, he notices in the instant before it fades, and it speaks volumes. He sniffles, rubbing his nose with his knuckles, then descends into another fit of coughing, muffling it with his sleeve. “Let’s get what we need and go. I’ll browse…some other time.”

“As you wish.” Everything, everything is always carried on Fenris’ tone. The way his earlier confirmation was so effortless, on the edge of pleasant with the faintest hints of a smile cornering his mouth. Now, just as immediate but repulsed, the emotion locked tight behind the polite facade but there nonetheless and obvious to anyone used to him. It must be how Danarius reads him, and there must be something very wrong if even Tevinter doesn’t care to put a clear name to it. The guard turns, to a nearby shelf lined with small bags. “The prepared packets are this way.”

Anders follows, his movements a bit stiff and tightly controlled as he tries not to stand too close to Fenris’s side. He bends down to peruse the packages of herbs, checking labels and dosage instructions. “This is supposed to be enough for one person over fourteen days.” He picks up a second package. “Enough for both of us.”

The purchase is easy enough, no line and the shopkeeper nodding in perfect understanding when Anders comes up to him with those particular pouches in hand, and Fenris is tightly controlled as he finishes the transaction. Any further neutral and he would give the tranquil a challenge.  
Not another word passes between them. The polite, sharp edge to Fenris’ features to keep himself reined in fade the moment they leave but for nothing truly better, only replaced with a somber frown as he casts a glance to their surroundings then steps back into the carriage after the apprentice.

Anders moves from his bench to sit beside Fenris instead, once the door to the carriage is closed. He draws the curtains shut, blocking them from view from the street, and he waits for the sound of the carriage wheels and the horses’ hooves clattering against the paving stones before he speaks. “So what is that red shit really?”

Fenris only looks up well after the curtains are drawn, only when Anders’ words cross his ears. His gaze finds the apprentice, their relative privacy with the closed windows, then the man’s eyes again. “I told you. A beast of Ferelden Tevinter has no short supply of.”

“So, Elves, or ‘barbarians’, or does Tevinter even distinguish between the two?” Anders’s lip curls in disgust and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s just as hideous either way. Why would there even be a traffic in these backwards fishwife-remedies when there is so much -real- magic to call upon?”

Fenris sighs through his nose, long and slow, and lets his eyes drop to the floor. Some part of him had hoped Anders would drop it, as one of those things about Tevinter even the guard couldn’t argue away to a slave’s duty. “Some of the Magisters believe the Dalish have a deeper connection to the Fade. But they are the last to cooperate.”

Disgust gives way to a sober sort of horror. Anders lowers his eyes as well, dwelling on that spot on the carriage floor just in front of Fenris’s bare toes. “Danarius doesn’t partake of that, does he? He seems too clever by far.” The hideous cruelty of the practice goes unremarked, perhaps because Anders knows it’s obvious to them both. Perhaps because he feels too close to speaking sedition as it is.

“You would have to ask him if he believes it himself, but he has only participated enough to make a profit off fools and their apprentices.”

Anders swallows. He brings his arm across his face to muffle a cough, but then, without a word, he puts an arm around Fenris’s back and pulls the bodyguard into a hug. His hands smooth the back of Fenris’s hair, stroke after stroke to match the slow rhythm of his breathing.

At first Fenris freezes, the moment unexpected, but he relaxes soon enough. His head drops to Anders’ shoulder, breath slowing and voice too careful to remain even. “I know little of the practice itself. You should discuss it with our Master if it concerns you.”

“I will see what he thinks of it, at least.” Anders’s slim hands rub Fenris’s back, a minute, soothing spread of magic under his fingertips. “We should find something else to talk about. And I should thank you for looking after me.”

“I would be serving you poorly otherwise.” Briefly Fenris feels like he might straighten and pull away from the apprentice’s touch, but he doesn’t, only lets his head rise enough to look up. “Did you have another topic in mind?”

Anders lets his gaze settle on Fenris’s lifted eyes. That view makes him faintly dizzy, as if looking down from a great height, but the fall seems so inviting that he smiles. “The way you look after being heavily shagged.” His thoughts race back to the tone of things when they’d set out less than an hour ago. “That’s what we were talking about before we got sidetracked by all this business.”

This time Fenris does pull away, gently, averting his eyes again but now from embarrassment rather than horror. “If I didn’t know better I’d assume you never studied at all.”

“You wish I never studied. Or… no, you make me wish I never studied.” Anders leans his forehead against Fenris’s for a moment. “Perhaps if I behave, Danarius will take us on a nice vacation on the coast. Nothing to do but bask in the sun and make love and drink exotic things with rum in them. Do you do much basking? You should.”

“I… no, I don’t see the point of it. There’s never been such an outing. If you request it under the topic of studying the country I’m sure something can be arranged.”


	29. Chapter 29

Danarius had been vague about why, exactly, he was sending Anders and Fenris off to this ‘modest summer home’. Something about a book at a library there that he wanted Anders to study specifically, and having a couple weeks to do it. The Fenris part was fair enough, at least, he knew the route there and was apparently needed to vouch for this book’s use.  
The book itself was historical alchemical methods, something likely to bore the most interested reader, but perhaps that was part of why Danarius sent them to stay for some time.  
That, or the man simply wanted privacy for one reason or another.  
Either way Anders and Fenris find themselves traveling along a well-worn road, dirt packed hard enough to thud dryly under their horses’ hooves; a lean black beast Fenris seems used to and a somewhat showier built black and white, calmer steed for Anders.

Anders was obviously unused to traveling on horseback, though he seemed to grow more comfortable in the saddle as the journey progressed. It’s a bright day with only a few wispy clouds in the sky, a breeze to mitigate the sun’s heat as it rises in the sky, and Anders is in high spirits. He’s wearing his hair loose, and he’s grinning without even seeming to realize it, and as much as the young mage often seems troubled when he works, he seems utterly carefree when he’s out of doors, out of the walled city of Minrathous.  
“Won’t Danarius miss you?” The question comes to him from out of the blue as he thinks of the magister back at his manor, though these shows of magnanimity weren’t out of character for him at all.

Fenris glances back over his shoulder at the question, his horse mirroring the motion with a small toss of it’s head and a quiet snort. Even for someone unfamiliar with horses it seems like a twitchy thing, watching Fenris’ every move and looking half-ready to bolt at his slightest allowance. Not that he does.  
“I don’t know.” Which really means he’d rather not speculate his Master’s reasons, or at least not voice them. “Would you rather someone else take you?”

“No.” Any other day, Anders might stammer an apology, but at the moment he simply seems a bit thoughtful, his eyes on Fenris’s back. “I’m just impressed with his generosity, being willing to send his best.” Idly, Anders strokes the strong, arced neck of his gelding and reaches up to rub the horse gently behind the ears, lending some of his attention to figuring out what the animal enjoys, and what it shakes off in mild irritation.

Fenris rolls his shoulders, a slight shrug mixed with a straightening posture in his saddle, small places of the skin down his spine glancing past his sword. “We’ve often done this. I imagine it simply easier to send me than several slaves to run the house for you.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Anders confesses. “What’s it like, where we’re headed?” With a small squeeze of his knees he urges his horse forward, catching up to ride side by side with Fenris.

Fenris looks up, a little blatantly surprised and clearly used to being a few scouting feet ahead. His horse sidesteps, both from it’s rider’s reaction and to just make room for the larger horse suddenly sharing the road, though the restlessness in it’s movements seem to ease with the stablemate closer. Fenris just tries to ignore it, Anders and their horses and the way he can see blonde out of the corner of his eye, and looks ahead. “A small fishing town along the coast.”

“Last time I saw the sea, I was on a refugee ship sailing out of Gwaren. Even under the circumstances it was still… It made me forget, for a moment, what had brought me there and just be glad. Looking out over that wide horizon and seeing just the vastest sky… I felt like I finally had room to breathe.”

“I would imagine you would enjoy this stay, then.” Fenris pauses then, maybe debating his next words, something he would never usually say, no matter how lightly meant. "Unfortunate that you would have to spend some of this time with a book.“ And he drops the sentence there, for Anders to reply to or just leave flat, the quiet thudding of hooves under them and across the landscape lush vegetation dotted with small farms.

"It’s not so bad,” Anders answers, conversational and smiling. “I’ll be able to open the windows, listen to the waves, and I’ll have a cup of tea ready to hand…” His smile widens to a grin and he sighs. “And when I’m done, we can go out to the shore, walk in the surf, maybe even go fishing.”

Fenris can’t even contain the harsh scrunch of his nose, though it’s gone just as quickly, and with a hastily added, “As you wish.” Then after a moment he continues, as if he could just sweep it away with words in hopes that Anders didn’t notice, “The storerooms will be fully stocked upon our arrival; anything fresh can be arranged to be delivered at your request.”

Anders does notice, with a raised eyebrow that looks more playfully fond than anything else. “Maybe not fishing, then. What do you do to keep busy when you’re out here with Danarius? I don’t want you to be bored out of your mind.”

Fenris takes a long breath, slower than a sigh but just as deep, that Anders caught his misstep or willing himself patience at being asked such things. Perhaps both. “I don’t bore easily, I assure you. There is enough to do in my idle time.”

Anders goes quiet then, seeming content to watch the scenery, though his gaze returns to Fenris again and again. The high fences of a vineyard loom on either side of the road, and Anders plucks a heavy bunch of fine grapes from an overhanging vine. A few other questions occur to him, though he supposes the elf must already be well and tired of being interrogated. But eventually the words come to his lips anyway. “Aren’t you lonely?”

The way Fenris looks at him, not irritated like he has been quite a few times before, more perplexed like someone who’s never been posed or even thought about that question before. Not really surprising that Danarius would never bring it up. But there’s something else, just at the edges of his gaze, a faint haunting memory overhearing other slaves and their gossip, and thinking nothing of it at the time. When he finally replies, Fenris’ voice is quieter than he intended. “Why would you assume that?”

“You’re set apart,” Anders says. “With Danarius, you care so much about pleasing him and fulfilling your role that you choose every word and every action. With the other slaves in the household, you have the burden of being Danarius’s favorite, and you seem at a loss for how to belong. It’s isolating, having no one to go to with your cares from day to day, or even just gossip, jokes, idleness.”

Only Fenris’ eyes trail away, quiet while he thinks on this, though eventually once they return his brows narrow. “Isn’t it the same for you? You choose your words for him as much as I choose mine, and no slave has the place to discuss such things with you, nor would they want to. Does that bother you?”

“Yes.” Anders’ expression sobers but a hint of perplexity remains at the realization that he’d been so wrapped up in Fenris he hadn’t even considered himself. “Sometimes it does. But I’ve been in lonelier places and I’ve survived. And just because things are difficult now doesn’t mean they always will be. ”

“You speak like it’s a hardship to overcome. It must not bother me, then.” Fenris’ eyes trail away again, his chin following this time as his gaze turns towards the road, and the ever present high arc of his horse’s neck. “It isn’t entirely true. I mind words but Danarius and I talk about much, and I have Carnality for what words can keep his interest… and I doubt the slaves would talk to me, favored or not.”

Anders shrugs. “You’ve never known anything different. You -also- don’t seem one to admit when something bothers you. But… strange as it is to be saying so, the demon isn’t such bad company.” The topic of Danarius, Anders decides to let lie. Risks aside, his own feelings on the subject have grown complicated.


	30. Chapter 30

Eventually the forest breaks, trees so thick it’s a wonder the road stays so wide, green living walls of foliage opening up to a small beachside town settled in the crook of a cove, with sharp hills and cliffs to either side. At this hour the sun hangs low on the horizon, almost ready to fall behind the canopy at their back, the ground is muddy and the air is damp, with just enough breeze to keep it from being uncomfortable. Tens of boats are scattered in the shallows, pulled ashore or anchored down for the evening, all small wooden crafts quietly drifting with the blue-green waves rolling in on a black sandy beach. The town itself is charming, still Tevinter and still slaves milling about but far less off them, the buildings all walled together in rows and made from rough hewn blocks of white stone, uneven enough to climb on, a small modest market only three houses large.  
But they pass the town, follow a road smaller than the one they came in on, and continue up one of the flanking hills. The road gets steep, enough that the horses silently complain with their jerking gaits and tosses of their head, and it seems that with any slip the beasts would go tumbling all the way back down, rider in tow.  
Finally the road turns a corner and evens out, the trees crowd back in again, and a single building comes into view. Immediately recognizable as their destination, the walls almost polished smooth and brickwork as flawless as if they were still within the city. The construction’s design itself is more creative, the first floor almost entirely open like a large sheltered patio with weatherproof curving furniture, only the kitchen, privy and small slave quarters walled off towards the back. The second floor is visibly far smaller, well sized windows to what would only have space to house a bedroom and bath. It all faces outward, all that steep climb now paying off with a spectacular view of the cove and the ocean beyond it.  
A simple, small and open stable stands to one side that Fenris leads them into, already unstrapping the saddle from his horse the moment he dismounts.

Anders is dazzled by it all. The village and its sheltered cove seem so idyllically peaceful, and while the house is less extravagant than a Minrathous manor, it far outstrips anything he’s ever dreamed of living in himself. Even for a scant couple of weeks. It takes him a moment before he slides down off the back of his horse, one hand stroking that curved neck again as he leads the gelding to the next stall of the stable. From here, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore is quiet, a soothing whisper in the distance, but every breeze carries the smell of the ocean. With the sun beginning to grow low in the sky, the water is glassy and still, and Anders leans against a balustrade to simply watch it, and the sun’s red-gold reflection. When he manages to tear his gaze away, he starts to unfasten his own horse’s tack piece by piece.

Fenris doesn’t prod Anders to finish his work with his horse before staring, and with his experience he finishes with his horse far earlier, saddle and various tack thrown to drape over the stable fence. A quick turn of a spigot fills the water trough that spans the two stalls, and when he turns the water off with a squeaking handle he mentions something about making dinner and heads inside. There’s no bother to tell Anders the layout of the building but there’s no need to, most of the space quite obvious and in the same, if extremely simplified, layout of the mansion back home.

Anders doesn’t mind spending a few extra moments outside with the horses. He takes the time to brush his gelding, but leaves Fenris’s horse alone, the creature shying away from him and looking ready to bite. When he comes indoors he hangs his lightweight cloak and leans his staff beside it before he looks for Fenris in the kitchen. It’s far too easy to think of Fenris as more companion than servant, this far from the manor and the city, and for now Anders ignores the murmurings of doubt in his mind, that this could cause him trouble down the road. More trouble. 

The kitchen’s ventilation keeps any smells well away from the rest of the small interior but once inside the room the smell of a freshly started fire wafts in, already starting a lively flame to lick at the black pot hung over it. It looks like whenever they leave there is sure to be enough in the pantry, of this and that, foodstuffs that last well and stay dry until thrown into boiling water. Enough for one night at least, one just like this one, freshly arrived and no time to head down to an already closed market for fresh meals.  
Fenris looks up as Anders walks into the kitchen, surprised but not really. “Did you need something?”

Anders steps up behind Fenris, rests his hands on the elf’s lean hips, and bends his head to kiss the swirl of silver hair at the crown of his scalp. “No, I’m well. Just thought to keep you company.”

“As you wish.” With the soup needing time to simply wait and heat up, and with Anders keeping him in one place, Fenris unlocks the tiny metal latches to his gauntlets and rests them on the stone counter. Nobody will come to attack them when Danarius isn’t around, and his heavy sword has already been left propped near the door. For a few days it looks like he’ll get to be less the guard dog and more the simple slave.  
…not that he looks much a cook, either, but the food smells hot and simple, and sometimes that’s all it needs to be.  
“There’s wine, if you want it.”

“Thanks, I’ll help myself.” And Anders does. His touch lingers just a moment as he steps back, turns away, and finds the rack of wine bottles. While Fenris keeps an eye on the pot, Anders pulls the cork from the bottle. Then he rummages the cupboards, looking for cups, and pouring for the both of them, this time with full awareness that a Master would not do this for a slave, and perhaps a bit of self-congratulation at finding an opportunity to try and spoil Fenris.

For what had been an easy excuse to gently make Anders let go so Fenris can focus on the food he watches, of course he watches, and tries not to look critical of any of it. This might not be how things are done in Tevinter but, as much as he hates to admit it, there is no Danarius to be the real master of the house for these next couple weeks. Might as well begin to get used to Anders’ overly generous eccentricities.  
With the fire fully stoked, heating the thick column of stonework around it, the spine of which leads up to heat the bedroom, Fenris carefully sets the small pot aside and ladles out the contents, just enough for two bowls. A couple deep spoons added to the full bowls and he leaves the kitchen, waiting at the door for Anders to follow him out to the large open area where a table and a couple chairs overlook the darkening sky and ocean.

Anders follows, bringing the wine, and his expression seems to ease and brighten just a touch as the fading sunlight hits his face. He sets the two wine cups down on the table, and then the bottle he carries in the crook of his arm. He pulls back a chair, turning it towards the view of the sunset, and sets himself down in a relaxed slouch. “I never thought I’d consider Danarius as somebody who makes sacrifices for his work, but he does. Else, he’d be here, watching the sun set every night. This is splendid.”

“Unfortunately that would likely leave him penniless.” Fenris hardly wastes time, bringing his spoon to his lips the moment they’ve sat and settled the dinner between them. Then he adds, as an afterthought, “…and without a good cook.”

“But an -excellent- bedmate,” Anders returns. He takes his bowl and eats readily enough; whatever Fenris’s opinion, he finds nothing objectionable about the soup. “But why do you suppose he wanted us out of the way? He could have just as easily sent me to do my reading in the Circle’s library or the city’s athenaeum.”

Fenris can’t help but smirk at that, a small one, though it fades at Anders’ question all too quickly. There’s a pause, small but just long enough that it’s too obvious he’s thinking over his answer for what should be simple. “Apparently obscure books find obscure places.”

“Apparently so, if a seminal text on alchemy so important to him can’t make the journey to his laboratory, where it would be rather more relevant.” Anders sips from his cup, giving Fenris a level look over its brim.

By now Fenris has better prepared himself for scrutiny, simply continues his soup. “I’m sure that could have been arranged. If you take issue with his solution, you’ll have to take it up with him.” He glances up then, finally meeting Anders’ eyes, casually, and glances to the bowl opposite him. “The evening here grows cold fast…”

Anders looks Fenris in the eyes long enough to make it clear that he does know Fenris is dodging the question. “I can think of a few ways to keep warm,” he says, deciding he’ll let it drop for now in favor of more pleasant thoughts. He picks up his bowl and, rather than bothering with his spoon, sips from the brim.

Fenris flicks an eyebrow upward, and glances past it before reaching for his wine for the first time. But once in hand he keeps it after the first heavy sip, lingers with the glass cradled in one hand, and responds with a simple, “As you wish.” before taking another sip.

When Anders puts down his bowl again he’s emptied it, and he sits back with a satisfied “ah.” His face registers brief surprise that Fenris drinks some of the offered wine without being prompted to. His own wine, and something about the tone in Fenris’s voice when he gives that simple reply, puts some color in Anders’ face. And even with the view of the cove below, he finds his gaze, his thoughts, all resting on Fenris once again. When he finally looks away it’s almost demure, with a shy smile on his lips and a sigh muted in his throat.

As much as Fenris had other intentions with the statement, the air truly is growing cooler by the moment, and now as the sun has not only set but the remaining light is beginning to truly dwindle, the air becomes faintly chilled. When Fenris really notices, a rather unwelcome breeze tickling up his arm and the back of his spine and leaving goosebumps in it’s wake, he tips the glass of his wine farther and finishes the rest. And with that he stands again, silent, though not for lack of words, stacking the empty bowls to one hand and the thin necks of glass between the fingers of the other as he returns them to the kitchen.

Anders rises and follows, taking a moment to wipe the table – manners from the apprentice mess hall, still ingrained. He steps up behind Fenris while he works at the wash basin, just barely leaning against hi, chest against shoulders. His hands find Fenris’s hands, rest upon them, closing his fingers, pulling them out of the cold wash-water. With Fenris trapped between his arms, he washes the bowls himself, chin on Fenris’s shoulder to see what he’s doing.

The best Fenris can do is to stare blankly at the hands working in front of him for a few moments, hands that aren’t his and hands that shouldn’t be washing dishes of all things, entirely perplexed. Hands that he fights the urge to lift away to get back to the work /he/ should be doing. Unable to remain perfectly idle Fenris reaches for the washrag and dries his hands. Carefully he picks up one of the wine glasses to dip into the water, fill with a small swirl and tip back out, then curls cloth-tipped fingers to wipe it spotless.

Anders doesn’t raise any objection, vocal or otherwise. He does plant a kiss and a somewhat stubbly nuzzle at the junction of Fenris’s neck and shoulder, and then, soon enough, the dishes are clean. He hugs Fenris to him for a moment before he steps back and lets go. 

When Fenris half turns to look Anders in the eyes, and he does the moment he has a chance to, his lids are narrowed, suspicious. Not enough to reprimand Anders for cleaning, or even mention it, simply acutely aware of just how much every move Anders makes confuses him.  
He sweeps the look away, eyes moving instead to the rest of the room, not demure with thoughts clearly buzzing through his mind but backing down from any vague confrontation. But without it Fenris is left awkward, adrift and staring at nothing until his gaze passes the door. That’s when he notices it, the fresh distance between them and how cold it feels, and how cold his hands have become from cleaning. The night sinks in fast here, icy tendrils spreading everywhere, and he hadn’t noticed until now. “The stairs are this way, before it gets colder.”

Anders isn’t exactly immune to that awkward silence, his mind sifting through various options for inviting Fenris to bed, all of them discarded as too crass, too clumsy, too this, too that. So when Fenris takes the initiative his whole expression brightens. “Right. Let’s get a fire going, and ourselves under some blankets.” Together. Naked. This gorgeous elf in his arms again, those sad eyes in the firelight, those perfect lips under his. And that feeling in his chest, expansive and aching and making him want to blurt out so many things he should probably be ashamed of. He follows where Fenris leads, barely a step behind him.

“The kitchen fire usually suffices.” Well, it was something to say up the small flight of stairs. Without the fire from the kitchen to light their way their path darkens until they reach the top of the stairs. The hallway is short, one smaller door that must be the bathing room and a larger, heavy wood door that almost looks like it would be a weight to open on strong hinges, if anyone but Fenris tried it. With a creak of unused metal the room inside is dark, but Anders’ eyes adjust as moonlight bounces off the ocean and through the large windows.  
The room is certainly compact compared to the master bedroom back home, but no less luxurious for it, likely hence the imposing door. A bookshelf to one corner, loaded to the brim with books and spines stacked on rows, with a single cushioned chair on a fur rug. The opposite corner, small doors open to the shaft from the fireplace in the kitchen, already warming the room during the time they were eating, and a large metal grate perched, for another fire to be built up if needed. Several iron sconces, empty and awaiting magic to light them. And the bed, frame simpler than anything in the mansion back home but heavily loaded with three thick hides of various beasts, and more neatly piled alongside.

Anders lights the sconces with a low flame, enough to see by while keeping the room intimate, the light flickering and warm and golden. His only reply to Fenris is a quick “Good” before he begins ushering Fenris over to the bed. He’s happy enough not having to take a detour before he starts working on unbuckling Fenris’s belt.

Fenris only stops when he hits the leading edge of the bed, furs rounding the top of it. His palms plant to either side of him, both kitting fingers into the soft black bear to keep himself from tearing at Anders’ clothes, and he arches forward to beg silently. Lips already parted and breath warming on them, eyes tipping downward.

Anders reads what he can from that tilted head, those parted lips, and he leans in to kiss Fenris deep and hard. He rubs his palms, the heels of his hands, against the bulge in Fenris’s leggings before he starts to tug at the laces that hold them on. “Make love to me,” he whispers. “Help me get naked and into bed with you /right now/.”

There has to be a small glance upward, that moment of a questioning look, one with an intensity melted by the firm grind against Fenris’ outlined erection. A soft shudder in his lungs, a rushed nod and Fenris leans closer, lifting his hands from the bed and lifting his chin to meet their lips again, fingertips blindly finding then tugging loose the laces at Anders’ pants.

Anders is just as hard and ready, and has been since Fenris invited him to bed. The only thing that compels him to take his hands off Fenris’s body is the need to shove his own clothes down or out of the way, to pull off his waistcoat and tunic and fling them to the floor. His kisses are breathless and ravenous, each brief pause between them just long enough to let him pant for breath. 

A quiet fumbling to unbuckle a belt, and the heavy thud of it and the leather’s contents onto the floor. When they do break it’s because Fenris sits, bare ass on fur, his back arched high and chin tipped upward in his reluctance before he shoves his leggings forward the rest of the way off, and then back to unstrap the armor and molded leather from across his chest. The piece is dropped to the floor, Fenris’ thighs resting along Anders’ hips, and under it his sleeveless doublet is as form fitting as his leggings. He drops a palm to prop himself up, the other thumbing the clasps open, and while he rushes to work the last of his clothes off he adds, “There’s oil in the bedstand drawer.”

Anders steps out of his trousers but freezes in mid-reach as he goes for the oil. Fenris is beautiful. So beautiful he’s dumbstruck by it, even though this is hardly the first time he’s seen that lithe, perfect body. His skin looks bronze in the low lamplight, and every bit as sumptuous as the sleek fur he’s resting on. For a moment he can forget everything, even that he’s standing there naked with raw longing on his face and his hard cock jutting from between his legs. But it isn’t too long, thankfully, before he remembers how much more he wants to do than just look. He slides the drawer open, finds the oil, then nudges it shut again. He plants his knees on the bed, letting Fenris watch while he pours oil into his palm and then strokes his cock until it shines.

Fenris is awkward for a moment, doublet unbuttoned and sliding off the shoulders as he pulls his arms back, when his eyes land on Anders. The last piece of clothing doesn’t even make it off the bed, simply left where it lands, and Fenris closes the gap between them to kiss Anders’ ribcage, then chest. Then neck and finally lips, one hand drawing over Anders’ to set the oil down on the table, the other drawing across his back and shoulders to draw them down onto the pile of furs.

In the study and practice of alchemy, Anders has observed how a scant drop or two of one reagent can change vast amounts of another into something far different. It’s best when there are colors involved, when a drop of something violet into a large flask of something clear suddenly fills the flask with spreading clouds of vibrant crimson. It isn’t magic, precisely, but it is so -like- magic, that just a touch would be so perfectly transformative.  
Each kiss Fenris gives him is like a drop into a flask, small but so potent he couldn’t imagine feeling that tenderness and remaining unchanged. And just like that, his joints are loose and his chest is tight, and he follows the guidance of the hand on his back, easing into bed, pushing back the furs to slip under them with his skin against Fenris’s bronze satin skin, and his lips brushing kisses against the side of Fenris’s jaw until he can whisper in his ear, “I love you, Fenris.”

No sweet murmurs of ‘I love you too’, no suddenly spurred affectionate kisses pecking at Anders’ cheek and neck. Only the huff of air from Fenris’ quiet snort, the bare hints of a second, humorless chuckle. But he doesn’t pull away either, light touch of his palm still resting along the curved edge of a shoulderblade, thighs still tickling at hips and erection still arched high between them. Only then, and perhaps a bit late, does he search out Anders’ lips to quiet them both.

That hollow, rueful note that Fenris tries to keep stifled behind closed lips doesn’t go unnoticed. Anders lets that belated kiss linger, though, and he leans into it instead of breaking it to speak. He draws the furs over his back and lets his weight settle on Fenris, his hard cock lying along the crease of Fenris’s thigh as his hands wander over him. “It’s true, though,” he murmurs, his voice a bit meeker now with the knowledge that he’s certainly screwed up along the way. 

“I know it is.” The reply is barely over a whisper, the tones still there but tucked away to soften it somewhat. Fenris’ lips break, a faint gasp as a careful shift of his hips draws their erections together, hot and teasing. Whatever his feelings he still wants this, aches for it as much as Anders seems to, cock tight and balls a heavy weight pulling at his shaft.

Anders slips one slender hand down between their bodies, cups Fenris’s balls in his palm, rolls and squeezes them before his fingertips slip past to his anus. He teases at that smooth pucker, smearing it with the oil left on his hand, then spreading it open with a downward tug of his fingers. Whatever is weighing on Fenris, maybe this will unburden him more than talking can. With his lips on Fenris’s branded throat, Anders guides his tip into place and pushes.

Anything is forgotten, and easy, Fenris’ chin dropping back to the bed and laying bare his throat, the small rise there that bobs as he gulps and grits his teeth. No matter how much he wants it the first moments, the round soft head forcing him open and wider and shaft keeping him spread as Anders sinks deeper to fill him, it aches. A welcome ache, muscles tight rings on Anders’ shaft that can’t find a grip for all the oil. That early ache only makes the sensation better, every supple ridge and curve and detail of Anders’ cock, and how his balls press firmly to Fenris’ ass that makes him groan despite himself.

Anders echoes that groan into Fenris’s ear as he sinks into him up to the hilt. He pauses like this, the frenzy that brought them to this point finally abated as he’s where he needs to be. He slides his arms under the small of Fenris’s back and holds him as he starts to move. His first thrusts are long and slow, giving Fenris time to adjust to him, time to find that focused craving each stroke along the tender spot inside him builds. Being inside Fenris still feels luxuriant, like something to savor, even if its intensity makes it a challenge to reign himself in.

The breaths from Fenris’ lungs are long and deep, shuddering gasps after each drawn out exhale. At first even slow movement is too fast, and this thighs clamp against Anders’ hips to force him slower, but as he relaxes his knees loosen, toes spreading and the balls of his feet pressing into the bed to angle his hips and keep himself steady. And soon it isn’t enough, that deep core inside him making him rock against their motions. Fenris’ chin draws up, his lips to the crook of Anders’ neck, the hand along his back tightening with a quick and small “/please/”.

Anders smiles. He draws back, then pushes in harder, faster, his hips slapping against Fenris’s rear. The pleasure is almost overwhelming, and Anders is panting against Fenris’s ear, then finally seeking out his lips again for breathless kisses. His hands slip from the small of Fenris’s back to the firm globes of his ass and take hold, gripping tight as he fucks him. With a brief bite at Fenris’s lower lip, Anders shifts onto his knees, lifting his chest off of Fenris, the blankets slipping off his shoulders. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” he says. “Do it or I’ll stop.” He reigns his pace in again, slows his thrusts and simply grinds against Fenris’s spot, staying buried in his ass.

“Don’t-” The only word that escapes Fenris is just as pleading as the last one if not moreso, choked out between uneven gasps for air, his eyebrows arched upward and lips parted as he nods desperately. Fingers and then palm lifts as he pries his hand from the bed, and once free reaches for his own erection, first to steady it’s bobbing along his stomach then to curl his palm around the shaft, as tight as his ass must feel. He jerks across the length, shallow and desperate against the pressure building in him, the slit dripping either from Anders’ cock or his commands, or both, and Fenris just barely manages to choke down a whimper.

Anders’ pupils dilate as he watches, and with a hitch in his breathing he starts to thrust again, jogging Fenris’s strokes with each impact of his hips. His hands slide from Fenris’s thighs to his hips to his narrow waist, long fingers spread to see how much of that lithe body he can hold, thumbs dragging along graceful lines of lyrium. There’s more than just pleasure and lust in Anders’ eyes, even with those fires burning so hot between them. There’s something of longing, and something of awe, that it could be his touch and his words to bring Fenris to the brink of his climax. To the brink and past it. “Say my name,” he commands, drawing back for another deep thrust.

Fenris shoves an elbow under him, propping himself up enough to watch, body curled and eyes half-lidded. His mouth only closes between shuddering pants to swallow, wet his throat, and eyes on their joined hips he says “Anders..” so easily, as if he had something to say. Once said he bites his lower lip, winces, breath still heavy through his nostrils. With a small start Fenris drops his hand from his cock, hard and flushed satiny pink and balls tight. His breath stops and for a moment it hangs there in the air, bobbing to their motions, and with a quieter, meeker “Anders, I’m going to-” he spills, cock throbbing as cum spurts across his stomach.

Anders groans. He feels Fenris tightening around him as he comes, but it’s the sound of his voice, the sight of his jism splashing across his belly and his chest, that drags him after. His hips buck up against Fenris and his groan turns to a sharper, louder cry. His eyes stay open, even though they glaze and lose all focus, Anders’ body shuddering over Fenris. His hair is damp at the temples, a dew of sweat on his forehead, and for a moment every line in his face is erased while he’s lost in his climax. Then the pulse and jerk of his throbbing cock finally slows, the knot of exquisite tension in his core uncoils and Anders drops forward, panting to catch his breath, flushed cheek resting over Fenris’s heart.

The deep rhythm in Fenris’ chest, fast with each exhale and faster with each inhale, eventually calms, energy between them sinking through his shoulders into the bed. Finally his lips close, eyes threatening to follow suit as they trail down to the mess of blonde hair under his chin. After a few moments of peace he groggily pushes his elbows under him again, props himself upward at a gentle curve that takes Anders’ weight easily. “Stay. I can fetch us warm towels.” Not exactly exclamations of love, but the gentler tones carry something on the words, behind the formality.

Anders’ first response is a slurred and wordless murmur as he forces himself back out of a comfortable haze of half-sleep that had settled on him like a glowing cloud. “Here, let me…” He pulls his softening cock free of Fenris and rolls off of him, motions languid, and a dreamy smile on his face as he sinks into the bedding. “That was /very/ good,” he slurs, letting his eyes roll shut again.

Fenris can’t help but smile, even as he forces himself to sit up. Somewhere in his motions of getting up he presses his lips to Anders’ forehead, short and less than a kiss but more than a peck, then up and gone from the room. Though Anders isn’t left entirely in silence, quiet sounds from the next room over, Fenris still there though the cool air sweeps in and settles where he once was. Some minutes later he returns, though it may just feel longer in the post-sex sleepy haze, already looking clean and still very much naked in the doorway he closes. In his hand is a silver bowl that he sets down at Anders’ side, with a warm damp towel.

Anders dozes, unable to help himself. The room is warm, the bed is comfortable, and the afterglow has him in its grip, feeling deliciously spent. But even while he lightly sleeps he seems to be smiling his contentment. When the bed shifts, he opens his brown eyes and sits up slowly. Pushing the covers aside, he unrolls the towel and starts sponging himself off. He’s begun to fill out a bit in recent weeks, with the aid of meals and rest, and ridges of muscle sheath his ribs now, pad the apex of his hipbones and form an appealing crease that angles from his flanks to his groin. “Forgive the cliche, but I feel like I’m dreaming.”

The response from Fenris is that same sound from when Anders said he loved him, that voiceless chuckle that can’t outright tell him to stop being ridiculous while sounding fond all the same. Once finished the towel and bowl are set on the table and Fenris stretches out at Anders’ side, on his stomach and arms folded under his chin, shoulderblades loosely bundled on his back. “I’m beginning to gather you like it here.”

Anders stretches out on his side, dragging his fingertips along Fenris’s bare back. “I think it’s going to be a very good couple of weeks,” he answers. His fingers trace along the lyrium-lines he can see, and when he speaks again, his tone is softer, intimate. “You are so beautiful, and so sublimely sweet.”

Fenris hardly moves, momentarily looking like a cat for Anders to pet. Perhaps exhausted from their trip and good fuck, though that doesn’t seem to quite fit. A subtle cold shoulder seems more likely, and more troubling. His response is simple, quiet. “I will be sure to tell Danarius you approved of his idea, then.” 

Anders catches something in the restored formality of Fenris’s words. “What did I do wrong?” He lays his head on the pillow and draws some furs over them both.

Fenris sighs, and uses the movement to help prop his elbows farther under his chest. “One of my tasks is to make observations-” The sentence stops dead there, and he turns his eyes to Anders to clearly debate even discussing whatever is on his mind further. But Danarius has never punished him for voicing such, and Anders’ overall generosity leaves him more daring. “You have made your stance on slavery clearly enough. But you seem to turn a blind eye to anything not within your direct awareness.”

“Does it do anyone much good for me to know of things I can do nothing to prevent?” So quickly, the relaxation on Anders’s face is replaced with concern, and guilt. “I’ve seen only pieces of things. I’ve collected gossip from the demon. I still remember trying to help you block your ears so you could sleep, and that whole cartloads of slaves come to the household never to be seen amongst the staff. And add to that the question of what Danarius needs his bodyguard for in his laboratory, as it clearly isn’t the type of work I had you help with.” 

When Fenris pauses again it isn’t to debate anything, there’s no narrowed eyes or critical looks in Anders’ direction. Instead his eyes drop to the mattress under his wrists, and picks at his words not unlike a child picking at unwanted food. “Then I imagine you can reason why we’re here.” And, quieter, “The slaves have a name for our house, at the stock auctions. Lanius.”

Lanius. Butcher. Even in the quiet security of their bed, it’s enough to make Anders’ gorge rise. His breathing is slow and deliberate, and after a pause he reaches out to stroke his fingers through Fenris’s hair. “And that is what you and I must live with day to day, because we have no other choice.” Yet something inside him howls in rebellion at those words. His face tightens, eyes closing against hot tears of shame. “There has got to be… there has to be /some/ way…”

Fenris shifts uncomfortably, raises a palm to rest his chin on the heel of it, his eyes barely slivers under their lids as he watches Anders sidelong. “I will not conspire against him.” Firm. And loyal, even this far away.

“No…” Anders says, despairing yet with an inward-directed shame. “Of course not.”

“Then you didn’t realize.”

“No, but not what you think.” Anders swallows and rolls over in bed, facing his back to Fenris and gathering the covers up to his jaw.

If a person could take up the exact space someone else left Fenris certainly tries, the bed still warm in the inches Anders shifted from, his lips and breath lightly pressed to a shoulder. “Tell me?”

Anders swallows against the knot in his throat, again. His back rounds slightly against Fenris, presses into his embrace. “…I am as guilty as he is. Every day that it continues, every day that I know, and do nothing. There is no way I can claim innocence. I feign ignorance like a selfish coward because it’s easier to obey and reap the rewards than to risk his anger.”

A small pressure more than the rest against Anders’ shoulder, of puckering lips easily hidden by a resettling of cheek to skin. “Do you think you would be more constructive, less cowardly and dead?”

“I would have at least the courage of my -supposed- convictions,” Anders answers bitterly. “To do nothing… I feel as if I’ve finally become the hypocrite I accused the other enchanters of being.”

“You didn’t intend for them to walk to their death.” Fenris shifts, places his forehead to the spot of skin his lips rested on. “You wouldn’t win. I wouldn’t let you.”

“I know. I couldn’t raise a hand against you anyhow. My only choice is to obey or to run.”

“Will you?”

Anders is silent for a while before he answers. “I’ll obey.”

The sigh from Fenris’ nose is heavy, immediate. His breath on Anders’ shoulder is hot, even when he pulls away a few inches. “I should be glad to hear it.”

Anders shifts, giving Fenris time to move as he rolls to face him again, to drape an arm over his body. “Less trouble for you all around, I’m sure.” But for all the sarcasm implicit in his words, Anders’ tone is gentle. “Maybe it isn’t wise, or right, but I don’t want to run. Not this time.”

“Not that.” Fenris inhales, slow and deliberate as he meets Anders’ eyes. Maybe to gather a bit of courage, however tiny and regardless of how confident he always seems to be. “What you said.”

Anders only looks confused. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

His shoulders sink and he glances down, now at a loss for words that he has to pick from just as deliberately, silently cursing himself for bringing it up at all and putting himself here. “That you will obey. Like we all do. And…” Well, if he’s here, might as well be daring when it’s only a small note further and not a topic he would never touch. “-..there are facets of that word I don’t think you fully understand.”

“I will, in time. I don’t think there’s any way around that.” Fenris looks as vulnerable as Anders has ever seen him, and he threads his fingers in that silvery hair again, managing to fight the impulse to tuck a lock of it back behind his ear. “Would you have me do otherwise? If you want to see me chained to a post again …”

That, at least, wins a small crook to the edge of Fenris’ lips, a small turn of his gaze through lid-slitted eyes. “Unfortunately that much would eventually see you hang.”

“So I have to behave myself.” Anders plants a kiss on the bridge of Fenris’s nose. “And any chaining-up will have to be between you and me, behind closed doors, and just for fun.”

That strong, flat bridge creases with Fenris’ brow, perplexed yet further distracted by his troubling thoughts. “I will never understand what makes that ‘fun’.”

Anders decides to drop that particular tangent, and leans his forehead against Fenris’s. “Just tell me what concerns you?”

“I’m not sure.” Fenris seems to deflate at that, even if it’s only a slight lowering of his head. Then a silent laugh, quick exhale that seems to be surprised out of him. “You can be incredibly frustrating, but I still wish to stay by your side.”

Anders feels a flush of warmth at that, enough that he can even feel his hair bristle in his scalp as he blushes. He cuddles in as tight as he can with an enthusiastic wriggle under the furs, and he hugs Fenris just short of fiercely. “You ar– I – If w–” Anders stammers helplessly.

It’s exactly what Fenris isn’t expecting, his initial reaction to practically jump at any movement Anders makes until he realizes and relaxes just as quickly. But it does leave him turning his head to stare quizzically. “What?”

“…I love you.” Anders says it in a small, muffled voice. Meek under the weight of how much he means it.

Being loved for what seems to be little to no reason is so strange. Danarius loves him with an exacting measure, one minutely predictable with Fenris’ behavior, and not the confusing wash that Anders gives regardless. He is quicker to respond this time, and not with a laugh though perhaps no less awkward. “You should rest. I will still be here by morning.”


	31. Chapter 31

The morning begins early, gently. The early light, no matter how faint, bounces and rolls off the waves, lights the world for hours in the barest glow. The misty morning catches and spreads on the rough white stone, cold pressed against the window that lets light filter in, and despite his promise Fenris isn’t in the bed. An empty spot, with the echoes of warmth fading quickly, cool air tickling along Anders’ skin where Fenris’ heat should be, and only some slight sounds from the stalls next door to hint where he is now.

Anders reaches out a hand to touch the warmth still left in that gentle indentation in the bedding. He shouldn’t be surprised by the besotted pangs of heartache that Fenris is out of arms’ reach, but he rolls his eyes at himself and shakes his head. As if running was any kind of option when he’s got it this bad. He kicks off the covers and dresses in a hurry, pulling on plain, comfortable clothes he’d normally dress up with some kind of mantle or doublet if they were back at the manor. Once his boots are laced and tied, he goes in search of Fenris at the stable stalls.

The horse look pleased if cooler than they’d really like to be, hides fluttering against tickling breezes. Both have been freshly brushed down, dry but clean, their stalled changed out with fresh hay, fresh enough to bring a sweet grassy smell to the air. Any ice barely beginning to crust the surface of their water has been cracked and tossed into the nearby forest, the new topoff water steaming in the metal trough.  
Even Fenris’ skittish animal looks content, though it pulls it’s head up in a tight arc when Anders approaches. Fenris is at it’s side, placing tools back to the wall. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No,” Anders answers, leaning against one of the stall gates. “I woke on my own. Have you had breakfast yet?" He pulls back a little warily when his gelding sniffs at his hair for a moment, just in case the horse is thinking about biting.

 

The pause from Fenris comes with the briefest flicker of a smile, little more than a twitch at the corner of his lips, either from Anders’ reaction to the horse or whether the slave had eaten breakfast yet. "No, I can start on it immediately.” With his words he cranks a nearby faucet, one that should probably be stuck in the damp cool morning and whines in protest, water splatting onto and darkening the stonework as he washes his hands quickly and dries them on a rag pegged to the wall. The horses watch the both of them but when he washes up they seem to take it as a sign, ducking down to chew idly at their fresh hay.

“No rush,” Anders hastens to add. “I was wondering if you thought we should go to town and get some supplies. We could have some porridge now, or some bread and cheese later if there’s a bakery down at the harbor.”

Halfway back to the home and Fenris stops to half turn, eyes on Anders, exterior suddenly changing for the formal. “There is a bakery. I intended to fetch supplies while you studied, did you have something else in mind?”

Fenris’s change in demeanor makes Anders pause. For once, rather than castigate himself, he simply thinks. It isn’t as though they could enjoy the same kind of easy companionship once they were down in the village. They’d be master and servant there. And Anders would have to put his brocaded finery back on to keep up appearances. He shakes his head. “On second thought, I think your plan is better.” He follows Fenris toward the kitchen.

“As you wish.” For all that, all but a confrontation, and it ends with such a simple response and Fenris turning back to continue on. Breakfast would have been predictably bland if not saved with a generous amount of spices and some sugar, and as soon as the bowl is presented Fenris quietly leaves. The building goes quiet for most of the morning, a gentle breeze and the whisper of waves accompanying the warm rays of sun that make the night’s cold a vague memory.  
Two horses return, loud in comparison to the peace the building normally faces as they clamber up the hill. Soonafter Fenris and a young woman, an elf and clearly a slave, dark brown hair pulled back from her working rags, cross the household to load sacks of fresh food into the kitchen. Her eyes are bright, cheerful and far less formality in her step, and once in the kitchen she tries her best to stay politely quiet as she chatters, oblivious to or ignoring Fenris’ notes of irritation.   
“Is Danarius out? I didn’t notice his horse.”  
“He had business.”  
“Oh. With Hadriana..?”  
“She has been replaced.”  
“I can’t say that isn’t a welcome change.” A long, quiet pause as they work, and then, “Oh! Does that mean.. is that the new heir?”  
“Are you done?”  
“Yes, sorry. I’ll take this note back to Henry at once.”  
They step out of the kitchen, Fenris looking as exasperated as he sounded, the girl crossing the house to leave but pausing at the door, and turning towards Anders to bow as neatly as she can. “It was a pleasure meeting you, ser.” And with that she leaves with a small trot before she even gets to her horse.

Anders looks up from his reading, blinking and bewildered. The alchemy tome he’s been assigned to read is open in front of him along with a couple of references, and he seems to have already made his way through a substantial portion of it. Also beside him on the table are a pot and mug of tea, and an open jar of slightly granulated honey. “Welcome back,” he says to Fenris over the sound of those retreating hoofbeats.

“Thank you.” As the house resumes its gentle silence Fenris returns to Anders’ side, the irritation fading from his face just as quickly, the girl towing it away with her. His eyes catch on the tea, and instead of mentioning it he lifts the pot to top off the mug. “I apologize if her talking interrupted you. She doesn’t realize how well sound travels here.”

Anders waits for Fenris to set the tea down again before he attempts to haul the elf into his lap. “So what did she mean, ‘new heir’?”

For a split moment, caught surprised, Fenris doesn’t budge any more than a statue would, before he relaxes and lets himself be dragged into place. Then in the next moments he looks horribly awkward, unused to such a position, until he finds an arm of the chair to settle his back and elbows against. And for all that, he still finds it in him to look at Anders as if he had asked what the sky meant by being blue. “She meant you.”

“Clearly, since she was looking at me when she said it, but I’m no relation to Danarius. Should I be pretending I am?” It’s difficult to think of the matter at hand when Fenris is looking at him with that particular wide-eyed look. Though Anders acknowledges to himself that he can end up distracted by those eyes no matter what expression they’ve involved themselves in.

Fenris sighs through his nose. Someone should have predicted this, why he has to be the one explaining it all remains beyond him. Perhaps Danarius’ idea of endless amusement. “Apprentices are typically chosen from the next generation of family members. If there are none, one is simply chosen. You don’t have to pretend anything.”

Anders gives Fenris a puzzled look, but his words mesh with things he remembers Carnality saying to him. The reality of the situation begins to sink in – that this is not just one chapter in his vagabond life, but a game he has a stake in, whether it was his choice or not. A game he will have to play, and a dangerous one. His bemused look fades, with a sober one taking its place. "I see. I hadn’t understood that before.“

As Anders’ look fades it glows on Fenris, now just as perplexed and his eyes narrowing at the response. Suddenly it feels like something important has slipped by him, and with all that Danarius is capable of he doesn’t like the feeling at all. Being told you’re about to acquire a magister’s portion of the city and possibly his importance should be something to be excited about. "What?”

Well, this is new. Usually Anders is the last to grasp things, with Fenris making that very clear through his exasperation. With the tables turned, Anders can’t help but grin. While the game might have high stakes and little room for error, if he can stay in it, there are some obvious perks. “I was just realizing how bloody hard I’m going to have to study.”

“I see.” Complete with an unsaid ‘is that all’, and a pointed glance away to keep from rolling eyes. “He has been consistently pleased with your efforts, I imagine you’re well at the skill level he hoped for. Hadriana… was not.”

“Yes, but he’s not the only one I need to impress. If there’s no way out of it and I am absolutely going to become a Magister, I need to be as powerful as any mage in Tevinter. And I need to be able to navigate senatorial politics. As of now, I think I’ve managed to make it obvious to you that subtlety isn’t really my strong suit.” Anders rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“He is /quite aware/, I assure you.” As aware as hitting a butterfly with a brick. Fenris sighs quietly, leveling a look on Anders that clearly says how much he thinks teaching the man anything about subtlety is a lost cause, before reluctantly glancing away. “I will do my best to answer any questions you may have on the subject, and fetch political history books for you.” A fishing port’s library will be dry of them, but Danarius does have a single bookshelf here that would likely be helpful.

And that is what Anders gets for trying to explain himself, he supposes, with a wry and slightly flat look leveled back at Fenris. “Good, because I’ll be finished with this alchemy text in a few days at the most.” He shifts Fenris out of his lap and back to his feet.

Fenris stands then immediately takes a step back, out of Anders’ space to a somewhat more polite distance. “Then perhaps this building will see a few days of what it was intended for. Is there anything else I could do for you?”

“Perhaps clue me in on how to seem like less of an idiot in your estimation?” Anders’ tone is acerbic.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” The words are more than a simple kneejerk from a slave, just as quick but gentler and lacking the quiet fear of punishment. “Most of it will come with time. Only tell someone what cannot be inferred, and weigh it all to your personal benefit.”

Anders’ expression softens, and he leans one elbow on the table, thoughtful. “Forgive me for snapping at you, then. It’s good advice.” Good, even though he thinks he’d rather not follow it when Fenris is the only one there. “But what did you mean by, 'what this house is meant for’?”

Fenris blinks, half distracted by the unexpected question. “Nothing. Danarius comes here to escape work, not focus on it.”

Anders feigns a pout. “I see. I was hoping you meant more sex.”

“Well. I wouldn’t exactly call that work.” Fenris can’t help but smirk, a bit. “As long as your task is finished by the time we return, I doubt Danarius cares what you do in your free time.”

Anders grins, sits back, and rather deliberately closes his book. He tilts his head in the direction of the stairs to the bedroom and quirks an eyebrow at Fenris.

“If you wish. Were you under the impression that I was watching you for him?”

Anders shakes his head. “I was under the impression he wanted us to spend some time together. I’m not sure of all his reasons. I just know I’d rather have you here.” He pushes himself up from his chair and heads for the steps.

“That, or he had an idea of the mood I might be in if he sent anyone else.” Keeping Fenris home when nothing particularly needed his attention would be like keeping a dog in the crate while rabbits played in the garden. Either way, Fenris follows without a word of coaxing. “I do know the proper answer, should you guess it.”

Anders suppresses a brief flare of annoyance that he’s expected to guess. After all, he’d just concluded that he was going to have to learn these games. "Give me some time. I’ll give it some thought and see if I can give a better guess.“ Anders pauses on the stairs, waiting for Fenris.

"It isn’t important.” The moment Fenris reaches the top of the stairs, the moment they’re both shrouded in shadow with no large windows to light them, Fenris closes a fist around the cloth in front of him and pulls. Their lips press together, Anders’ more of a fall and Fenris a searching desperation. But his fist tightens and releases, and Fenris shies back a couple steps, as if struck or quite expecting it, eyes to the floor and a rushed “I apologize, I shouldn’t have-”

“I beg to differ.” Anders’ lips are flushed from the sudden, forceful kiss. As much as any of Fenris’s tenderness the previous night, it reminds him, reaffirms that his lover /wants/ him. “I could get used to that,” he says with a breathy, husky note in his voice, and his smile is inviting as he places his hands on Fenris’s waist. “When we’re alone this way, it can be like this?”

For all that Anders seems to enjoy it Fenris still doesn’t look up, eyes troubled and an unchecked frown on his lips. “I don’t know.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Anders’ smile returns, reassuring this time, and his hands move from Fenris’s waist to take him by the hands instead. He backs up the steps, leading the way to the bedroom.

Fenris is easy to lead, all the more passive for all the daring defiance of kissing someone moments ago. The bravery then leaves something awkward in it’s place, unsure and eyes still downward despite everything Anders has done with him and everything he hasn’t done to him. For all that reassurance it feels like Fenris has lept forward only to stumble and fall back to the beginning, or farther, and it leaves him silent.

Anders barely takes his eyes off Fenris, puzzled at first but them concerned. At the top of the steps he pulls the slave into his arms and kisses him, piling tender kiss atop tender kiss on Fenris’s mouth, his chin, his cheeks. His palms smooth over Fenris’s back, his fingers card through his hair.

Anders’ touches are warm and comforting and Fenris all but melts against it, his shoulders a gentle weight. Though that frown remains, even as he closes his eyes and begins to relax again. “I..” A drink would be good right now, something to burn his core and smooth the edges of his mind, and without it he simply stops to retry his sentence. “I thought I might lose you.”

“Over a kiss? You do realize you are a superb kisser.” Anders speaks softly, his own confusion and gentle ribbing subdued under his tenderness. He strokes the rounded, muscled shoulders under his hands, resting his cheek against Fenris’s forehead and savoring the warmth of his skin. “I am so much in love with you. Every time it becomes clear, even to a clod like me, that you want me… It’s like a blessing. ”

“It was not my place, regardless. Another master would have me punished direly.” Fenris doesn’t just say those words but has a true conviction behind them, the hints of being torn up inside underneath the calm exterior, that he was desperate for something that felt very wrong. Then, as his mind clears of it, “I’m sorry, this wasn’t what you had in mind-”

Anders shakes his head. His arms tense and tighten around Fenris for a lingering moment, and when he loosens that hug and leans back, the look on his face is anything but displeased. “It’s close enough. And… we should discuss your place, where I’m concerned, at least.” His hands slide down Fenris’s arms and take his hands, leading him back to the bed.

As they walk back into the light, the brilliant sky filtering into the room, Fenris manages to regain his composure. As if nothing had happened, save the decided frown on his face. “I am part of your inheritance. Among other duties I am to protect you, aid you, and please you as you see fit.” And that sounded scripted, a breeder’s catchphrase branded into his skull harder than lyrium.

“You are more than that, to me. You’re the one I love. And to have you beside me is… it’s something I’m grateful for, grateful to /you/ whether you think my gratitude is necessary or not. ” Anders runs out of words and finds himself blushing, head lowered while he tries to pin down what he needs to say, and how to say it in a way Fenris might be able to hear. “Even if you are my inheritance as well as my lover, you have needs and desires and it is my duty to you to care for those. You understand that not every duty is chore, yes? That some duties are a privilege? To care for you is something that I want. Something I can’t help myself from needing to do.”

“I think I understand.” Though Fenris’ eyes search the floor, not for obedience but as if he could find some meaning there, sort out Anders’ words with his own feelings. “But.. what if my desires are to serve you?”

“I wouldn’t refuse anything you offered me of your own will. And I’d ask you to understand that if your desires ever changed, I wouldn’t punish you.” Anders sits down on the edge of the bed, allowing Fenris to decide whether to sit or to stand.

“I… see.” Which is only to say he looks ever more perplexed. Fenris crosses his arms loosely over his chest, looks about ready to pace back and forth, gaze antsy, but in the end he simply forces himself to sit at Anders’ side. “But I would still be your property.”

“No.” Anders lowers his voice, shakes his head. “You would have your freedom, and half of whatever wealth Danarius passed to me, and the offer of a place beside me as a freed man and master of a shared household. ”

That small frown turns into a genuine scowl, crossed arms tightening against themselves. “You think I want that? Rule over a household I once belonged to?”

“No. I think you have earned the right to do what you will with what I believe you’ve earned. If I live to become a Magister it will be only by the help and protection you’ve given me.”

Fenris huffs, eyes focused away though there is nothing to hide his face. That outright, disgusted snarl looks quite ready to burst when he closes his eyes and lets out a deliberate sigh, the expression wiping clean from his features. His eyes open again, though barely, thin and towards the floor. “Anders. I have more advice for you:” His graveled, scarred throat voice sounds deeper than usual, solemn. “Never free a slave you wish to see ever again. Do you understand?”

Anders gives Fenris a steady stare, his head lowered. “Do you think I would be dismissing you as unwanted? Do you think I would keep /any/ slaves, rather than offer servant wages and quarters to the household? I will do what I believe is right, when it is finally up to me.”

“No, I imagine you will have entirely good intentions.” Fenris cools further, as he finally shifts his gaze, turns his chin to see Anders. “What do you think is the first thing a slave would do, with their freedom?”

Anders’ gaze only sharpens, and he pushes Fenris’s shoulders back to the bed, climbing over him. “I don’t know. If it was me, I would leave Tevinter. But /listen/ to me, now. I want … I want to keep you, but… not as a cowed, obedient slave. As a lover, a partner, a protector. Am I managing to make -any- sense or might I just as well be babbling? And I know this is all speculation, and things could turn out very differently for both of us, but…”

“I know-” Fenris stops, if only instinctively for technically interrupting. The cross of his arms loosen and give way, shift under him to prop himself up enough for his brow to touch Anders’ nose. “I know what you want. But I think what you want would leave you with an empty mansion.”

“Then perhaps I won’t do it right away and in haste. Perhaps I’ll take my time, and perhaps I’ll win some loyalty, and perhaps over the years to come I’ll have some better ideas.” Anders is content to rest the bridge of his nose against Fenris’s forehead. “But in the meantime, the practical gist of it all is, if you want to kiss me, please do, and if you want to fuck me, make a pass and I may well oblige you.”

There’s no immediate reply, Fenris dipping his head just enough for their skin to part and the silence to flow in between them more than the cool air does. Eyes down, where he can try to parse his emotions without drunkenly toppling into Anders’ gaze. His lips part, take a small breath to say something, then stop, edge forward haltingly and after another pause finally close their space again, lips on lips but this time delicate and hesitant.

Anders lets his eyes shut. That kiss is small and yet momentous, and Anders’ lips twitch in a smile against it. He kisses back, tender, lips closing on Fenris’s bottom lip and holding it a moment before he lets go, breathing out a warm sigh through his nose. 

That pleasant, pleased sound elicits an echoing sigh from Fenris, though much moreso from relief. The kiss drifts more than parts, their lips barely touching then not at all, hardly noticed by either between their breath, until Fenris shakes his head with a small smile crooking the edge of his mouth. “You need better ideas.”

“Don’t I know it,” Anders says. He opens his eyes a crack, then flops onto his side next to Fenris. “Did you know you’re very handsome?”

Fenris’ eyes follow Anders as he moves, fingers knitting and steepling idly over his stomach, and his lids narrow at a tired subject. “Did you know that you’re a mage?”

“Sweet of you to notice,” Anders replies with a wide grin. “Did you know I’ve never seen more beautiful eyes than yours? I even noticed that while you had your sword in my gut and that tends to demand a person’s undivided attention.”

“Anders… ser.” The word is tiny, nearly gulped over habit. Fenris turns, props an elbow under his side to get a vantage and watch Anders evenly. “Danarius selects his household from the finest bred stock in Tevinter. I imagine that I am no different.”

Anders’ grin wanes under that 'ser’, though he makes the assumption that Fenris is getting even for his teasing. “You have a point, but.. nobody else makes me feel the way you do.” He glances away, mouth twisting a bit. “Saccharine as that sounds.”

“/It isn’t./” Fenris stops, for a moment, both embarrassed and surprised at just how strongly his words escaped him. “But I doubt you say that from my looks alone.”

Anders’ eyes snap back to Fenris, but his expression is a mixture of bashfulness and curiosity. “No. I think what I like most about your looks is that they’re yours. The way you’re intense about everything you do. The way you never lie. The way I enjoy it when you’re frustrated with me.” He smiles again, admitting that. “You have a handsome face, but you wear it better than anybody else would.”

The best rebuke Fenris comes up with is a simple huff through his nose, chin turning away towards the door from unexpected embarrassment or casual irritation. “I have no reason to lie.”

Anders simply glides a hand across Fenris’s chest and sighs, wistful and fond. “You’ve got as much reason as anyone, and yet you never do. A sign of your strength, and your pride, I suppose. ”

The touch draws his attention back, enough for him to look down at Anders’ hand, though he makes no move to pull away. “What could I possibly lie about that would be worth the punishment of being caught?”

“You could lie to avoid getting caught over something else? I guess I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

Fenris shakes his head, a gentle afterthought of movement. “Lies beget lies. Soon enough I would have to out-think Danarius. Which I can’t.”

“So. What do you suppose I should most praise you for, beloved?” Anders’ hair is spread in a tousled mess around his head, and he has a winsome smile on his lips.

“I don’t know. You have been lucky to not see what he made me for.”

Anders reaches out, knuckles brushing Fenris’s hair. His expression is immediately more somber. "I will, eventually.“

The sigh through Fenris’ nose, eyes closed to the touch, is soft and deeply long. "I know. I’m sorry.”

“I love you. That won’t change.”

“Not that. It just isn’t something you should see.”

“It isn’t something you should do.“

Fenris looks up, past his half-lidded eyes and white hair. "Do not misunderstand. I will kill for you until my bones ache. But it is not a beautiful thing.”

Anders shifts closer on the bed, tapping the end of Fenris’s nose with a fingertip, hoping it might diffuse the somber mood. “You need a hobby.”

Fenris tips his chin away by an inch, though only after Anders touches him, and the pause only clarifies that he doesn’t make the connection for the sudden question. “What would you have me do?”

“Something that makes you happy,” Anders says. He drapes an arm over Fenris and pulls them together again, snug and close.

Fenris blinks, looks down to what small space remains between them. “I have no other talents, and I already have something that makes me happy.”

“What would that be?” Anders doesn’t entirely feign ignorance, though he certainly hopes he’s guessing the answer right.

“Serving you.. and him. Though I have a feeling you don’t believe me.”

“I …believe you. I don’t always understand it, though. Even though I’m grateful for it. I love having you beside me.”

Fenris drops his head forward, until it rests squarely against Anders’ chest. A part of him feels coddled, and yet he finds that he doesn’t mind at all. “I’m sorry that I can’t explain it better.” The sword analogy certainly hadn’t worked at all. “Carrying out your will is being a part of you.”

Anders can feel himself blushing, the statement so simple and so profoundly intimate that it humbles him. His hands cup the back of Fenris’s head and he rubs his chin against his scalp. “Could I also… once in a while… be a part of you?”

“I…” Fenris can’t even finish the sentence he starts, brows furrowing against Anders and entirely baffled by the idea. It takes a few moments before he remembers himself, and the bottom line response every slave remembers. “Of course, if that is what you want.” And yet, even when agreeing to it, he isn’t entirely sure what he just agreed to. The idea of Anders serving him dinner seems preposterous.

Anders can tell he’s managed to confuse Fenris again. He’s managed it often enough to know the signs. This time, though, he smiles in spite of himself. “Then lay back,” he purrs. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

Fenris makes a small nod whether Anders can see it or not, more likely a felt flutter before he reluctantly pulls away from the embrace to lay on his back, elbows shoved under his shoulders to prop him up. Even if he has an idea of what Anders intends he watches closely, attentive as if waiting for another order.

Even though Anders’ hands go straight to the laces of Fenris’s leggings, he pauses to kiss his lips before getting to his knees at the edge of the bed. His cupped palm rests over the bulge behind Fenris’s leathers while he loosens them, and finally slips his hand inside to lift and free his cock and balls.

Fenris’ brows had only furrowed again, the small remaining disbelief despite all of Anders’ words. With a slaw arch of his back the heels of his hands find the bed to press against it, and he straightens as his hips slide closer to the edge of the mattress. A careful movement, to not force aside Anders’ hand nor get too eagerly close in the process, though the simple sight of being cradled by those fingertips betrays him well enough. Enough to flush his cheeks, though he doesn’t try to hide it.

Anders’ gaze flickers from the flushed and swelling tip of Fenris’s cock, to his eyes while he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue to give Fenris a moment of truly lurid anticipation of what’s to come. And then he lowers his head, and kisses his tip, lips sealed to the tip and then parting as his tongue darts out, firm and pointed and teasing across the loose bit of skin below the cleft of the head.

Fenris gulps, loudly, as his knees drift a few inches farther apart to allow Anders as much access as he needs.. /wants/. His cock is less shy to the flickers of unexpected attention, bobbing gently upward as it hardens, straining to Anders’ tongue as it pulls taught.

Anders can’t entirely subdue the smug, satisfied quirk at the corners of his mouth. He bends his head, lips dragging along the underside of Fenris’s shaft to the root of his cock. His fingers curl around the base of that shaft and he guides the tip into his mouth at last to suck.

And now Fenris’ jaw drops and he forgets himself a bare moment before snapping it shut again with a tiny click of his teeth, but lips still parted as he stares. The head of his erection, swelled soft as pillowed silk and burning hot with arousal, drips onto Anders’ wet tongue as the edges of that flared ridge press along lips. Fenris only manages a tiny, “Anders, please-”

Anders loses himself in the act and lets his eyes roll shut. His nose is filled with the scent of sex and fresh sweat, and he can taste the bitter tang of precum along with the subtle salt of Fenris’s skin. He sucks him hard, forgetting all the careful teases and flutters of the tongue that he’s studied from Carnality as his head bobs on Fenris’s shaft.

When Fenris’ mouth opens again it’s to gasp in air, a quick rush of cool filling his lungs and sending a tingle that travels down his spine to the deep base of his cock. His balls feel heavy resting on his loosened clothes, pushed up like a fresh peach against his wet cock, the sensitive skin tickled as Anders’ movements and his bottom lip tease at them, a delicate brush while the shaft gets such rougher grinding. Fenris’ fingertips tighten into fists, clamped pale-knuckled onto the fur settled under him.

Anders grasps his own cock through his straining trousers, hard and dripping in sympathy with the attention his lips and tongue lavish on Fenris. He raises his head, lips just past the ridge of Fenris’s cockhead while his tongue rolls over that taut, smooth tip.

Fenris’s feet roll forward from heel to toe, arching to the floor and the heavy frame of the bed faintly creaking from the strength he unintentionally exerts. His hips arc upwards with the strain, pressing upwards towards Anders’ mouth, shaft tingling as the saliva cools on him and sends a shiver up his spine.

Anders opens his eyes just a crack, sees the tendons straining at the hinge of Fenris’s thighs and moans in his throat. He remembers some of the tricks he’s learned and his tongue flicks across the slit in Fenris’s tip, gathering a taste of fresh precum. His lips slide down Fenris’s shaft by scant inches and his tongue traces the ridge of his cockhead, spiraling inwards bit by bit, never quite skimming over the most sensitive spots so much as teasing at the edges.

The ragged breathing deep in Fenris’ chest grows heavier, his lips parting farther. This time his tightened abs, hidden but hints of muscles under his fitted clothing, an even curve between his chest and hips, give a small spasm and a whimper escapes with it. A quiet sound but Fenris doesn’t try to hide it, lets it grow to a full groan as the slit of his cockhead strains and squeezes to reward Anders with more clear, smooth drips. His balls pull taught, closer to the shaft, at Anders’ mercy and ready to spill or not at his whim.

It crosses Anders’ mind to tease Fenris, to deny him. But he’s already learned that Fenris is denied too often as it is… and he /did/ say please. Anders sucks harder, cheeks hollowing, but only for a moment. Then his lips slide down Fenris’s shaft further, and Anders’ brow furrows with concentration. He shuts his eyes, and Fenris’s thick tip touches the back of his throat, presses, enters as he forces himself to swallow. And he swallows again, a tightening, rolling tug at Fenris’s tip and the scant inch of shaft he’s able to take. His lips are flush against the tender skin of Fenris’s pubis, and tears are forming in the corners of his eyes, part of the reflex Anders can’t suppress.

Fenris’ lips fall farther open, this time left unnoticed and unchecked. The tension in his body gathers, a noticeable tightening of already flexed muscles. It starts in his arms, the fur under him rippling as his hands clutch into a fist of hide, his shoulders bunching in a way that straightens out his figure, down his chest to his stomach and ass, both practically trembling, and onto his hips and legs. It builds in his thighs, his heels lifting from the floor and toes spreading, and for a quiet second he stops, unmoving, then with a shivering sigh he orgasms. With an almost meek cry his hips buck forward, balls pressed to Anders’ chin as his cock throbs and spills.

Anders can feel Fenris’s seed in his throat, a viscous, thick warmth he swallows down. His head jerks back after the first pule of seed, though, and Fenris’s tip pulls free of his throat to be pillowed against his flexing tongue once more. He eases Fenris past the brink with his lips and tongue, his palms flat against those straining thighs to feel the muscles quivering under his touch. The feel of it, the sound of Fenris’s voice in the instant of release, are enough to make his toes curl. He moves his hips in a subtle grind against empty air, his own cock dripping and ready an untended.

Fenris nearly coughs his last groans, threatening to catch in his throat between the sudden flexing of muscles bucking his hips and the rough gasps of air to his lungs. So quickly the energy ebbs from him, his shoulders go slack and his heels sink back to the floor, hips a slow comfortable grind, the head of his cock nuzzling a spasming slit against a hot wet tongue to milk itself there. Eventually Fenris closes his eyes, trying to focus on steadying his lungs and for the most part failing, but he cracks his eyes back open just enough to look down, and add an exhausted, “thank you.”

Anders just about glows with pride, even though his eyes are glazed and dark when he opens them again. He drags the balls of his thumbs along the creases of Fenris’s thighs, pressing hard enough to massage rather than tickle. For a moment he takes in the sight before him, Fenris panting, half-naked, splayed across the bed. And finally, he places a kiss just below Fenris’s navel and climbs back onto the bed, settling beside him.


	32. Chapter 32

For all that the ‘vacation’ had started out pleasant, possibly even blissful, the weather on the way home drags it out of them, both travelers and horses soaked from heavy cold rain brought in from the sea. By the time it stops the sun breaks the clouds and warms them, but the damage is done and the rest of the day passes in silence, horse hooves slopping through mud.  
Or perhaps it started before then. Fenris had begun to sink into a wretched mood. First a simple remark that seemed off, then it seemed like Anders had genuinely done some wrong that Fenris refused to speak of. It only festered as the time to return home grew near.  
Perhaps he’d had something like freedom and was beginning to loathe going back to the life he was used to.  
Though that didn’t seem to fit at all.  
But they returned home in silence, the horses taken from them and lead away to be unpacked and cleaned, and Fenris didn’t change. Or rather, he didn’t change towards Anders. Danarius received the standard, though even that seemed somewhat stiffly delivered. A simple raised eyebrow, the attitude certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed. But, for whatever reason, their master doesn’t speak a word of it.  
They slept alone that night, and likely for the best.  
The next morning is gentler, Anders allowed to sleep while the warm sun rises and begins to comfortably warm the outer stone walls of the building, no grouchy elf to leave the bed.  
Though one quietly opens the door, a silver tray usually used for the dinner service carrying a few small pots and a steaming morning tea, the liquid strong and black for all that this elf looks pale as the moon. One of the slaves that Anders had only previously seen when he was tied to the post in the mess hall. Skin marred somewhat around the hands from delicate skin and rough work, hair a pale straw and eyes a faintly purple shade of blue. He looks a little flighty, none of the comfort of the house girl and none of the confidence of Fenris, eyes darting for any signs of disapproval and head tipped downward submissively.

Anders rubs the sleep out of his eyes, sitting on the edge of his bed in his smallclothes, with his tawny hair a tousled birds’ nest still. He recognizes the slave, and his eyes show it, but while he can easily presume that Fenris is at his master’s side, he wonders if Dianna must be similarly occupied. He groggily thanks the slave for the tea and porridge, his waking mind too sluggish to remember that gratitude will probably only confuse him until after the fact. So he pushes back his tangled hair, and follows his thanks with what he guesses most slaves would rather hear: “You may go.”  
He bathes quickly, then, and finishes before the steam has stopped rising from his mug. He eats with a towel around his shoulders, and he dresses in something finely tailored but otherwise austere. Sleep hadn’t chased away the black mood that had settled on him the previous day. Even though Anders opens the shutters on his windows to see the sun shining, he sees very little to like about life in Minrathous if Fenris can’t abide him.  
When he leaves his room he considers taking his breakfast tray with him as an excuse to visit the kitchens, but he dismisses the idea this time. He should seek Danarius to see if the magister had anything to assign to him. He could dig up household gossip later.

As Anders steps out from his room it becomes immediately apparent that the icy elf didn’t leave entirely, simply moved to a post alongside the library door. Which seems altogether odd, as both doors of the library are open and clearly nobody is inside.  
Until the screaming starts down the hall, somewhat dim but still clearly coming from the master lab at the opposite end of the mansion, where the slave’s twin is posted at a closed door. The one nearest jumps, the way someone does when they’ve been expecting a loud sound amidst the silence all morning, and he glances towards Anders somewhat nervously.

Anders goes white at the sound of screaming, something sinking in the pit of his stomach when he sees how the slaves simply carry on. It’s not an assault or an accident, whatever is happening is apparently business as usual. Which would mean he can undoubtedly follow the screams and find Danarius at work. With his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, Anders heads down the corridor at a hurried walk, the hem of his dark robes swinging at his calves. He looks the attendant at the laboratory door in the eyes as he reaches for the handle, waiting to see if the elf will stop him or warn him away.

The touch to Anders’ hand is at once expected and yet featherlight, a gentle brush of a single finger that comes to a stop as the curve of a nail meets the curve of a knuckle. For all that those blue eyes look similar to the twin that served him moments ago this one is calmer, more collected. Similar to Dianna, though less familiar. His voice is smooth, and as quiet as the rest of him, yet somehow it breaks through the noise. “The master would rather you not witness this yet.” And for all the warning he could say, his eyes speak the most; it doesn’t matter what Danarius has ordered, but rather the gaze in the slave’s eyes that plead him stay back. That Anders wouldn’t persist, if he knew.

It’s that plea in the slave’s eyes that Anders finds even more puzzling, that look that makes it obvious that again, the whole household knows something he does not. Anders hesitates. He could take that warning, let the others continue to shelter him, and keep the ignorance that he should, apparently, be grateful for. But he will have to give it up in the end. And he finds in himself a twinge of resentment for the sacrifices made on his behalf that he never asked for. “I understand,” he says, and he turns the latch.

Even before Anders opens the door, something is off. Not the sounds, or the way the slaves treat him, but in the air itself. A darkness seems too dramatic, but something that tickles the nose oddly, something that makes the hair on one’s arms stand on end, like the electric air of a bad storm.  
The slave’s eyes shoot to the turning handle, but there’s no further attempts to stop Anders. If anything he steps aside and leaves with all haste, clearly both of them posted only for Anders’ sake, and he gathers his twin with a quick and hushed 'tell Dianna’ before they both abandon the floor entirely. With their ears and their noses, they likely didn’t want to stay a moment longer.  
The door opens and a blanket of heavy air pours out, thick with the stench of cooked meat mixed with a sharply metallic vapor that vibrates the edges of one’s teeth. The room is dark, windows shuttered and lit by magic alone, both from white orbs along the ceiling and the almost blinding blue sparks cascading off the central worktable and sparkling along the floor.  
Danarius hovers over the table, all his nearby tables of glassware and equipment cleared for sprawling loose notes and diagrams, one bony hand guiding the chaos of electricity and fire across Fenris’ prone body. The table restraints hold, barely, leather charring in precise streaks where the magic arcs across.  
The smell gets no easier from the fresh air, instead lingering and mixing in Anders’ nose, the subtler details sinking in; the blood in thin streams from Fenris’ tattoos, the nearby vat of some stinking dark liquid, dry ash of skin and hair and the crumpled form of a long-unbathed elf huddling in the corner of a cage, hands over their ears.

When he realizes the source of the smell in the air, Anders can feel a crawling itch under his own skin. Fenris is burning. Anders kicks the door shut with his heel. He moves into the room just barely, sensing Danarius’s magic woven through the air like some floating filigree of cobwebs, delicate and intricate enough to defy understanding. He does try, however. But again and again his senses are brought back to the keening surge of of power where Danarius fuses lyrium into Fenris’s skin. The screams, the way Fenris quakes from the pain, the flakes of ash at the edges of glowing brandings, the reek of scorched flesh and burnt blood. It isn’t horror, exactly, that shows on Anders’ face, or disgust. Shock is there, and anguish, and the realization that he would lay down his life if it could make this stop, right now.

When the door shuts again any semblance of the wold outside vanishes, the fog closing in over the fresh air and extinguishing it immediately, the room darkening to a blue glow that makes Fenris’ blood and the swelling on his skin look black. Danarius looks up, hardly looks surprised as his hand continues to guide the branding down Fenris’ torso and to his thighs. Fenris doesn’t notice Anders at all, still screaming, and between those screams hisses and whimpers that give way to the sound of his skin sizzling and the creak of leather that makes him bleed worse as his back arches uncontrollably. The gurgling, hissing thing in the corner near the cage. A dog, with a demon’s eyes, snickering through canine teeth as it laps and mouths glinting teeth at a cage bar like a bone.  
Danarius turns back to his work, somehow able to stand the source of the smell but barely able to give Anders much thought beyond the initial pause, and he gestures with his free hand behind him towards the scattered notes. “You should begin reading, if you intend to keep him someday.”

Anders locks gazes with the demon-hound. He wants to scream out for Danarius to stop. Demand that he do something to ease Fenris’s suffering. But his throat closes tight, his mouth goes dry. Interrupting a spell this complex could only mean Fenris will have to go through even more torture, as Danarius starts over from the beginning. So Anders lowers his head and does as he is told. His hands feel heavy on the ends of his arms, dead weights, with the will to do anything sapped from them. Useless. Anders stands near a lit lamp, sorting through the pages of Danarius’s notes, and the muscles between his shoulders knot and bunch, flinching from every pained howl.

The notes, what Anders can read of them between the light and the sounds and the thick air that permeates his clothes and sticks to the fabric and hair and skin like grease, are small masterpieces. Every last nuance of Fenris’ body has been mapped in careful detail, any slightest variation from medical standards noted, overlays of the brandings meticulously documented with pages describing a curl that contours around a bone here, a branch that encompasses better muscle coverage and distribution there. Everything is overwhelming. It could be duplicated, maybe, though the undertaking would be huge and an inch deviation would ruin the entire experiment.  
Danarius must have ruined so many, to understand so acutely and to have perfected the design as far as he has. In testament to this fact are the pages themselves, paper clearly shuffled more than once in their time, some notes more frenzied than others, large sections blacked out, several stains of things Anders shouldn’t think on too deeply.  
The work is genius. And terrible.  
The screams, at last, begin to die down, a few last spasming kicks against straps as Danarius finishes the details along the feet. Fenris drops back to the table, collapsing even when restrained, eyes a dazed, dead stare upward and lungs gasping shallowly through dried lips and rasping throat. Danarius takes a deep breath and a sigh, unable to hide his own exhaustion from the endeavor.

“Ser–” Anders rasps, inaudible, only to try and cough, swallow, clear his throat and start again. "Master, might I at least assist with any healing he may need?“ He isn’t conscious of the tear on his face until he can taste its salt at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are on Fenris’s, only leaving his face in brief flickers as he tries to search out anything to give comfort. Clean cloth, water, a ladle, poultices…. anything.

"In a moment, sweet dove.” Danarius’ voice echoes his exhaustion but it comes with some patience, fully expecting some of Anders’ alarm. As long as he isn’t attempting to stop anything. His hand reaches out to delicately touch Fenris’ temple, and as immediately the elf’s head rolls back limply to one side, eyelids falling shut and breath slowing. That same hand sweeps back, palm upturned, and he glances over his shoulder. “Pass me the scalpel.”  
The only instrument left on the table amongst all the papers, sitting like a shining paperweight atop a small pile of work to one corner. The handle is gold and solid in it’s craftmanship, the blade itself silver, entirely spotless and polished.

“What.” Anders freezes. /You mean it isn’t over?/ But those aren’t the words that come out. “Don’t hurt him anymore,” he blurts, and his voice is full of the artless pleading of a terrified child. "/Please/!“ And yet he offers the scalpel in his shaking hand. "This is enough now, isn’t it? It’s done, he-he– I don’t think he can take much more.”

For a split, singular moment Anders’ pleas are met with silence, and cool eyes far beyond anything he has to say about the matter, the same way a parent would let slip a flicker of disappointment when their child shows an unexpected moment of weakness. As if fumes of Fenris’ body and blood weren’t coating the room. But the look leaves in that moment, as Danarius sets down the scalpel just long enough to undo the straps. Each clearly needs replacing after this point, and underneath each strip of leather Fenris’ wrists and ankles are a sticky mess of blood and bruising. “He is far stronger than you give him credit for.” When Danarius picks up the scalpel again he pauses, wrist resting along the bottom edge of Fenris’ ribcage, and he turns back with a gentler look, and tone, free hand offering. “Come here. I haven’t documented what I’m about to do, and it’s something I want you to know.”

Anders steps forward without a sound. No bland assent, no further pleading. He tries to focus, to make room in his thoughts to understand what Danarius is doing before his feelings flood those barriers and drown it all out.

Danarius hooks his arm around Anders’ shoulders and pulls him close, steadies him with the grasp. “Here.” That arm curled around him draws a touch along Anders’ wrist and lifts it, raises his hand to Fenris neck the the steady breathe and pulse of life under it. “Now. There is a reason I’ve left this space bare at the expense of some stability.” The scalpel draws a line down Fenris’ stomach, skin splitting wide and red, and then another smaller line across, and without a single fresh line of lyrium marred. The scalpel is left on the table for Danarius to reach in amongst the organs, each pink and rare streaks of lean yellow fat nestled together and shoving aside with a wet sqlurp sound, viscous fluid mixing with blood from the initial cuts and beginning to drip onto the table. “The unfortunate fact is that, over time, the lyrium begins to build up in his liver and kidneys. We need to clean both of them of obstructions.”

There’s a purpose to this, then. It mitigates the anguish and the horror of watching a blade lay Fenris open. And it allows Anders to guide his mind to a calmer, more clinical place. Chirurgery like this was usually assigned to the steady, precise hands of the Tranquil, but he had seen it done, and had rendered aid with his magic. There were many things that could best be accomplished by the two arts combined, and a healer had to be familiar with anatomy as he was with magic. Still, this was someone dear to him, not a cadaver grudgingly allowed to the younger enchanters for study.  
Anders cups Fenris’s neck in one hand, keeping his pulse steady and slow, his airways open, as Danarius had showed him. And keeping him deeply, dreamlessly, painlessly sleeping. "Very well,“ he says, his voice low and subdued. "Direct me and I’ll do what is needed.”

The corners of Danarius’ lips curl, unable to keep themselves from an approving smile, half sure Anders would have stumbled out to vomit by now and add to the rankness of the room. He doesn’t pretend to be entirely immune himself, only able to ignore his nose from familiar repetition. “All I need is your attention.” His hand hesitantly falls from Anders’ side as he lifts the liver, the organ flushed and vibrant, thin veins webbing across the surface. His fingertips methodically gently squeeze each thicker vein surrounding the organ, then palm resting along the top surface before settling it back into place to bring a kidney into view. It cradles in his hand easier, small and dark, easily distinguished from the mass of milky pink intestines. “Try to feel the problem.” It should be easy enough for any mage to feel it, even if one untrained would be unable to pinpoint the details of the issue. The faint grains of building lyrium, catching and depositing in the renal vein entries and deep in the meat of the kidney itself as the organ tries desperately to filter what it can’t.

The presence of lyrium is easy to sense, a wavering hum just under the surface of his thoughts. The greater difficulty comes in isolating any sense of these miniscule grains from the overwhelming presence of the lyrium branded into Fenris’s skin. Anders reaches out with his free hand, lets it rest just over the smooth membrane of the kidney. He can sense the grains of lyrium this way, tingling pinpricks on his palm. He can feel where the concentrations are greatest, and where the deposits are sparse but no less incongruent. "So the lyrium enters his bloodstream over time, and deposits build up here and in his liver. This isn’t something I’ve even seen in aging templars, but it’s likely preferable… there is no way to cure lyrium dementia, but Fenris’s body is fighting to protect his mind. He… he may have been in pain, from this?“

“/Precisely./” Danarius presses a finger to the wet skin of the organ, and one of the larger grains under Anders’ awareness is depleted and crumbled until it is no more than the finest inert dust the blood can manage easily. “It seems that over time the scars degrade as his body tries to absorb the lyrium during the healing process. When I initially saw this I assumed I had failed again; he was beginning to show symptoms of severe lyrium poisoning with onset of dementia. I have found that going through this process cures it entirely, if ultimately temporarily.”

"How often does this need to be performed?” Anders watches what Danarius does, then mimics it, resting his thumb over another deposit of lyrium and focusing his magic to carefully, delicately crushing it to fine powder. "If you have any notes on the topic of finding a more permanent solution I would be eager to see them… because, honestly, nothing comes to mind. This absorption is simply part of the natural processes of a living body.“ Some corner of Anders’ mind is surprised, perhaps disgusted, that he can become so clinical about this so quickly. But with Fenris’s pulse beating against the palm of his other hand, he knows Fenris is stable, and not in any pain. And that what they are doing is going to help him.

“This will be the third time.” Once Danarius is confident enough he slowly passes the kidney as one would a newly hatched bird to Anders’ full grasp, so he can work on the other still nestled under the intestines. His bloodied hands disappear under the mass, able to work blindly when the task is mostly based on feeling the problem rather than seeing it. “I realize this is somewhat an.. inconvenient solution, but any theories you may have are welcome. The experiments I can perform are limited at best.” No way to experiment at all, when Fenris is the only one with the condition. “As much as I wish to save our poor little wolf, we may also be at the border of a new medical discovery.”

Anders shakes his head. "I’ll let you know if I have any inspired ideas,” he answers, his tone distant and distracted. It’s not too difficult to shift his focus to treating the organ his holds cupped in his palm. The magic he focuses on keeping Fenris unconscious and breathing has a steady pulse to it, something he can keep going with only part of his concentration dedicated to it. Gradually the pinpoint-focus he uses to clear the lyrium deposits in the kidney’s veins and ducts adopts a similar rhythm. It’s incongruously soothing and meditative, even with Fenris’s blood coating his hand, streaking his arm.

The work becomes quiet between them, with neither a better solution and with Fenris finally managing some peace. The only true noise, in fact, is the slavering black and oily looking dog in the corner, and the huddled elf who has become numb to it’s noises.  
Danarius has not, however, and his gut-obscured touches grow further irritated and impatient until he stops altogether and half turns to look at the thing. “Fine.”  
The image of the dog blurs, throws itself as an inky mass against and through the bars, envelops the caged slave with a wet heavy slap of oil against skin. Just as quickly as the murder started it ends, silent, a shuddering tight ripple for the few moments of struggle, and then nothing.

Perhaps the worst thing about it is that Anders is too emotionally spent and too preoccupied with his work to even mark the slave’s slaughter with more than clenched teeth and an irritated glare. What can he even say to Danarius, “please refrain from murdering people while I’m preoccupied with chirurgical magery?” That the captive’s life was worth nothing to the magister had already been obvious. That it was, in practice, worth far less to Anders than Fenris’s wellbeing, is a harsher thing to recognize. And yet, can that really be so wrong? He lets his mind drop those questions as useless ruminations, and he continues his work, exhaling slowly as he can feel the lyrium grit finally broken down and dissipating from Fenris’s kidney. He moves to gently settle the organ back into place, keeping his arm out of Danarius’s way.

Danarius pays no mind to the horror of it, and while he does notice Anders’ glare he only meets it with a lame half-shrug from full hands. “Not every demon can be as refined as Carnality. Alas, we need him.” As he finishes the remaining kidney the black form within the cage collapses in on itself with a lurch and gurgle. A glowing bubble of swirling blood, then another, that pull together and reform into something resembling eyes. With some shifting in place and a grinding of bones it lurches forward again, back through the bars, momentarily snakelike with a trail of blood in it’s wake as it slips into the stinking pool.  
At last Danarius removes his hands, and reaches for a nearby rag to wipe some of the mess from his hands and begin jotting notes. “Close him and put him in the water.”

“/That/ water?” Anders is openly skeptical, and perhaps also openly disgusted. Yet he does as he’s told, taking great care to make certain every organ is settled into place as perfectly as can be. He closes the thick flaps of muscle and tissue, and with his eyes half shut and his mind enveloped again in the inner sense of his magic, he knits Fenris’s flesh together. It takes time, though the clean cuts from Danarius’s scalpel are far simpler to mend than a ragged wound would be. And when the work is finally done, not even a mark remains on Fenris’s skin to show what they had done.

“I take it you were under the impression I keep demons for personal amusement?” Danarius spares Anders a sidelong glance if only to double check the work once he’s finished, but the demon in the pool is the one to really notice the comment. It’s head pops above the surface, doglike but half formed out of sheer laziness, features of the skull sinking lopsidedly as it grins with a burping hiss of death.   
And it talks. A low, rumbling, rattling inhuman sound. “Afraid I won’t give him back?”

“Afraid you need a bath,” Anders scoffs, nostril flaring in disgust. Still, he scoops Fenris up off the table with all the care he used while healing him, lifting him in his arms and letting Fenris’s head rest against his shoulder. He sighs in spite of himself, looking down at the elf in his arms with tender concern. Then he lowers him into the pool feet-first, settling him in the water gently.

The response wins a hissing snicker, and the demon leans towards the edge of the pool. The shape gathers itself together with more purpose, resembles a naked young man with two smaller horns and a thin tail that flicks ichor across the wall with absent twitches. Fenris is lost the moment his body is submerged, not an inch of him visible under the surface, and the demon reaches a clawed hand to help place his head on the stone edge. “You want me to pull blood from the air instead?”  
“Focus on your task, Urge. Speaking of baths, I think we both could use one.” Or five. Danarius walks through the room, one by one drawing the blinds and opening the windows to clear the air.

“Could you, you -are- supposed to be -magic- if I recall,” Anders replies, rolling his eyes this time. "In the future, perhaps we can find a way to do this with less feces and fewer roach larvae.“ Anders plucks at the front of his own robes, not dark enough to hide that they’re sodden with blood and bile, looking even more disgusted. "On that, I require no convincing, Master.” But he is reluctant to step away and leave Fenris in the demon’s care. 

The grin on Urge’s face widens, too wide, nearly to the ears and sharp teeth. “Can you?” And then, in Anders’ voice flawlessly played back, “-you are supposed to be magic, if I recall.”  
“Urge.”  
A wheezing hiss of a subtle whine and Urge melts back into the pool, leaving only the horridly muggy air and silence. Danarius shakes his head with an exasperated sigh as he opens the door of the lab for them to leave.

Anders looks to Danarius for reassurance, and while he finds none explicitly, it’s clear the magister is able to leave Fenris this way without a second thought. Anders still drags his feet about leaving the room, his expression settling into a stony frown. In the brighter light of the corridor, it’s even more visible the way his sleeves and his chest are smeared with blood.

Danarius is likely no better, though the mottled-dyed robe hides it well. If it really was mottled in the first place. One of the blue eyed twins and Dianna await them near the doors through the library, and each silently assigning themselves to follow in either Anders’ or Danarius’ wake. Dianna follows Anders into his room and neatly shuts the door behind them, eyes down and looking like she’s still recovering from being quite ill. Little wonder why. “I’ll take your clothes to be washed.” Or simply incinerated, at the rate they look.

Anders sheds his robes as quickly as he can, the drying gore making the cloth stick his skin. "Just burn them. I didn’t know what an ordeal I should’ve …dressed for.“ Or prepared for in more general terms. "He’ll be alright,” he says then, and he knows it’s partially himself that he’s trying to persuade. Dianna’s palor goes unnoticed, if only because Anders seems unable to look her in the face after what he’s seen, and done.

She gulps, takes his bundle of clothes and the lingering smell carried with them. “I know.” Dianna’s own clothes are beyond simple, barely more than fashioned burlap, and clearly meant for this work of managing gore and the cleansing afterward. “He will be cleaned and with you in a few hours.” The words are supposed to be comforting, but the simple fact that they repeat Danarius’ ‘few hours’ comment means this has just happened enough to be some semblance of expected.

Anders continues to strip, casting aside his breeches and his smallclothes, not particularly self conscious about his nudity. It’s when he looks at his bloodstained hands that everything he had been through in the last few hours began to return to him in a rush of horror. "And he said… this is the third time this has been done? The fourth?“ His voice is small. Part of him wishes he could strip off his own skin and burn that as well, as if it would purge him of his complicity. And part of him wants to close in on itself and shut out the world completely. He shakes his head. "Bring Fenris to Danarius while he’s recovering. He needs stability and calm… I have neither, at this time.”

“Maybe not…” Dianna turns towards the door with the pile of clothes between her arms, but she pauses, and looks back to add, “-but you have what he wants.”

When Anders turns to her at last his eyes seem haunted. "I’ll leave it to your judgment. If you might have some…“ Anders stops himself before he asks for tea. ”…good Antivan brandy sent up, I could use a drink. Actually, bring it yourself, so could you.“

Dianna leaves quickly and without another word, if only to get rid of the clothes in her hands as fast as possible.   
A tray is perched on the bedside table once Anders finishes bathing, and while any other elf could have brought it up there are two bottles with the small glass, and a note that reads: ‘one for now, one for tonight.’ Any other time and she likely would have stayed. Not this time. There is a distinct lack of attending slaves, this time, an acute silence falling across the mansion unlike any other. Not even the faintly distant sounds of the kitchen preparing the next meal of the day.  
In a few hours, on time, Urge opens the door to Anders’ room without so much of a polite knock, Fenris naked in his arms but at least spotlessly clean of any gore.

Anders has spent a fair portion of the intervening time sitting on his bed, a towel around his waist and book open in his lap. And nursing one of those bottles that he had asked for. He stands up when Urge opens the door, though. The books slides off the bed to the floor, and Anders ignores it as he comes forward to take Fenris from the demon’s arms. He has nothing to say to Urge, no hollow threats and no gratitude.

The demon hardly even looks in Anders’ direction, and the moment he has Fenris secure Urge’s form vanishes, only to be replaced with a black cat as it scampers back out the door.   
Fenris is awake, or is now, likely kept asleep by the demon until they broke contact, his body shifting drowsily in Anders’ hold and groaning weakly as he dares crack an eye open only to be met with a window that looks much too bright.

Anders kicks the door closed, leaving it up to Urge’s agility whether his tail gets caught in it or not. He settles Fenris on the bed, then, as quickly as he can while still being careful as though the elf were made of glass. "Shhhh, take it easy now,” he murmurs against Fenris’s ear. Seeing the wince on his face, he draws the curtains shut, and the room is dim, closed and even cozy. "If you’re in pain I can bring an elixir to help ease it for a while.“ His voice is soft and smooth, only loud enough to be heard clearly.

Fenris manages to shake his head, even make an attempt at waving his hand to swat away the offer. He may be awake now, but that isn’t going to count for much. “It won’t help. Just.. tired.” 

Anders sits down on the bed beside Fenris and gives a small murmur of assent. "Then rest. If you need anything I’ll tend to it.”


	33. Chapter 33

Hours pass and sun rises high before Anders is disturbed again. Fenris has been near motionless since he fell asleep, only the slow deep breathing proving he still lives.  
A faint scratching comes from the door, the latch slipping from it’s place as if not closed properly, and a cat slinks in. Not Urge, or at least not the black cat with demon eyes that left. This one is a lean thing, steely grey fur short on it’s hide, and normal yellow cat eyes. It ignores Anders entirely, trots in confidently and leaps up onto the bed to curl up at Fenris’ feet.

Anders has polished off a bottle of brandy during that time, but he’s chosen not to open the second. He had said he would trust in Dianna’s judgment, and he’s grateful for even the smallest bits of advice after what he’s seen. The presence of a cat in the room is a welcome novelty, though, and Anders shifts the book in his lap to let him get within arm’s reach of the animal. He reaches out, slow and calm, offering the tips of his fingers for the cat to sniff. Though it does then occur to him to wonder how it unlatched the door.

The cat rolls onto it’s back, reaches out with little meathook paws to latch onto Anders’ hand and drag him forward, little white teeth on his finger- it doesn’t bite down, freezes in place while looking up at him with wide eyes.  
It’s then that the small movements on the bed finally stir Fenris, his eyes cracking open with a careful stretch of his arms. The flex ends in latching around Anders’ waist to keep him from getting up, and a weak headbutt against a hip to bury his face from any daylight. A mutter manages to escape his lungs, a quiet, “what time is it..?”

Anders doesn’t need much convincing. "Late afternoon.“ His words drawl a bit as he says them, lingering on his voice. While the cat holds onto his outstretched finger, Anders teases its belly with the others, and makes a careful attempt to extricate himself from those prickling claws. Once his hand is free he flops onto his side next to Fenris. shoving the book carelessly to the floor again.

With no more of a plaything the cat finds a nook, a curve of Fenris’ feet, and curls up unnoticed. Fenris groans at the response, less pained than the last time he made that sound, more a mix of how long he’s slept and how he feels no more rested than when he started. For a moment he tries to sit up, but only manages to put his elbow a few inches under him before he abandons the idea entirely and instead uses his remaining energy to move himself closer to the warmth beside him.   
Then his eyes widen, just a little, and he looks up to Anders’ chin. ”You were there..”

Anders wraps himself around the lithe body in bed beside him, acting as much on instinct as the cat at Fenris’s feet. But it’s with affection more than just a yearning for comfort that he tucks Fenris’s head against his chest. "I heard you scream and after that I had no choice. I had to know if there was anything I could do. Waiting at the door and guessing would have been worse.” Might have been equally as bad, Anders thinks, if he were being completely honest.

“I’m sorry.” The wrong words when he tries to put his mind to it, but they slip from Fenris’ lips anyway. 

“Mmmh.” Anders acknowledges the apology without commenting on it. He closes his eyes and and ducks his chin, putting his nose in Fenris’s hair and trying not to let the smell of it remind him of Fenris’s body, burning. He ends up thinking instead of the elven slave that had huddled in the cage, enveloped by Urge and wrung out like a sodden dishrag, and his stomach and throat begin to tighten.

Fenris’ arm draws up, tired and dragging, closer across Anders’ chest then curling to pull him closer. Try to pull him closer. Even with all the strength the lyrium gives him, every movement feels weak. But the scars are fresh, marks satiny with lyrium, and not an ounce of him smells of the horror that had been the lab a few hours ago. Likely some of Urge’s handiwork.  
For a little while it stays like this, quiet, and a softly purring warmth at their feet, until Fenris whispers a hoarse “thank you.”

Anders swallows the lump in his throat and nods his head. "It’s alright,“ he murmurs back. "Maker, I’m just glad it’s done with for now. I can’t believe you’re even awake right now.” As sluggish as Fenris may think his recovery is, Anders can imagine that the ordeal would have killed nearly anyone else.

Fenris huffs through his nose and smiles lamely, something that would have gone unnoticed if Anders weren’t pressed to him. “I’ve had help, if you noticed. I think I slept for a week the first time…and it hurt more.”

“I’m surprised the demon was so obliging.” Anders’ voice is subdued, remembering the price that help had come at, wondering if Fenris knows. "I should ask Danarius what the contract requires of him.“

Fenris doesn’t answer immediately, and before he can the cat rises and stretches, front paws reaching and shoulders low while back and tail arc high. As it straightens it carefully traverses Fenris’ side, and perches on his shoulder to press a padded black nose to the slave’s temple. After a moment’s pause it lightly passes the small gap to Anders’ shoulder, and sits with tail curling around it’s haunches. "It depends on the demon.”

“The very unpleasant one that helped healed you. Though I suppose I’m curious about Carnality as well,” Anders clarifies. He looks up at the cat perched on his shoulder. "Is this an actual cat, Fenris?“

Fenris manages to shift enough and crack an eye open towards the steel grey fur, while the cat settles into looking like a proper loaf. “Of course not.” And yet for all his half-sleep haze, he still manages a silent ‘what a ridiculous question’ to that response. 

"Ah. Of course not.” Anders deflates a little at that realization, surprising himself with a disappointed sigh. "Carnality, either spoon with us properly or go away.“

Carnality sprawls all four legs out across Anders’ shoulder, suddenly very uncatlike, unless a cat was very specifically trying to imitate a blanket. “I have to be here, and I was trying not to be intrusive for you. Admit it, you like me like this.”

"I like -cats- but you’re not an -actual- cat,” Anders gripes. "And part of what I like most about cats is how they’re not demons. Or people, either.“ Anders tugs the blanket higher, trying to huddle under it and shut the world out again. "Tell me you’re at least bolstering Fenris and not spying on me.”

“When have I ever spied on you? I would at least /try/ not to make it so obvious, playing like a cat in a household with no cats.” Carnality pulls his legs back in again, to at least look like a proper cat, and then shifts in place further. “Fenris is right, though. Our contracts are nothing alike.”

“Even I can tell you and the other one are different.” Anders seems be trying to suffocate himself against Fenris’s chest for the moment, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "The more I think about it the more I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep with that thing under this roof. I need to ward this room.“

A cat, and Carnality manages to chuckle better than Fenris can. "Urge is dangerous, because his nature is unstable. But he won’t harm any of us. The Fade is far less satisfying for things like him, and he fears Danarius.”

“But as you said, his nature is unstable. It’s difficult to have much trust in something that’s unpredictable. But Danarius trusted Fenris to it…” Anders begins to shift under the blankets, making a tentative effort to pull out of Fenris’s arms before he changes his mind. "Be useful, Carnality, and pass me the brandy on the nightstand.“ He sticks out an arm, beckoning with an empty hand.

“You misunderstand.” Carnality hops down to the floor, shifting midway to the naked horned thing he normally is. But instead of simply passing the bottle, he uncorks it to fill the glass and pass that. “Urge isn’t irrational or stupid. His nature fluctuates between many of the ‘types’ you’ve made names for. What he feeds on changes depending on his mood. Denying him would be breaking the contract.”

Anders sits up enough to be able to drink from the glass. "Then he– it… is the first demon I’ve heard of to do that. I’m not even sure what that implies, for how dangerous it is.” Anders sips the brandy rather than slamming it back. As much as he wants to be drunk, whatever Dianna sent up is too good not to spend some time simply savoring. He gives Carnality a level, if weary-seeming stare while he drinks, and something occurs to him. He had missed the demon, while they were away.

“In The Fade they tend to look like one demon or another.” Carnality sits on the floor, crossing his legs under him and still looking as catlike as before. “They never amount to anything, not really, but keeping one is like keeping contracts with five demons at once. More trouble than they’re worth. Danarius wants to see if they focus, over time.”

Even taking his time, Anders finishes his small glass of brandy quickly, and holds it out for refilling. "Carnality, I…“ he rubs his temples. "Come back and be a cat if that’s what you want. I need to try not to think, right now. What happened was bad enough without my thoughts keeping me pinned there.”

Carnality picks the glass out of Anders’ fingers to fill it. “So /that’s/ why you’re drinking.” As if it weren’t obvious. The demon fills the glass as he stands, but tips it back for himself. He thinks a moment on it, swirling it on his tongue, and while he doesn’t make a scrunched face he lightly shrugs about it, then leans in to kiss Anders instead.

Anders blinks blearily, surprised, though he makes no move to evade that kiss, and finds himself melting into it almost pathetically. "I just need to get it out of my head,“ he says. He polishes off a second shot and starts sinking into the covers again, seeking to tangle himself up with Fenris once more and take refuge against that warm, weary body.

The bottle and glass are safely set aside before a cat hops back up onto the bed, and stretches out across Anders’ side again. “Unfortunately I’m not here for you, else I would be glad to oblige.” All too unfortunately, with the things he hungrily imagines doing. Later, perhaps. Fenris still has some days to sleep yet.  
Fenris’ eyes are open, though barely slits underneath heavy lids, something in his nature to fight off the sleep in favor of simply laying dormant but conscious, if barely. “..you can go, if I remind you of it so much.”

"No,” Anders says. "You remind me I went through a dark place and came out the other side. You remind me what made it worthwhile.“ He pulls the covers up over his ears, half blocking out what dim light the room still has. ”…and I feel safer with you.“

A tiny puff of air across Anders’ nose; the only indication of Fenris’ amusement. “How? I’m not particularly able, right now…”

"And yet I still feel better that you’re here. It is a mystery.”

“That isn’t safer.” Fenris closes his eyes but only to try to find a more comfortable place against his pillow, movements stiff, and with a grumble finds that there’s no way to be comfortable when it all hurts and there’s no ‘safe zone’ of skin to lay on. Instead it stings where he places new weight, and it draws a quieter groan. “It’s company.” He isn’t even bothering with slave politeness anymore, all statements and no suggestions.

“I feel both. Better and safer. If I were alone right now I’d be afraid of my own shadow. But I’m not alone, so it means things can’t be so dire. If that makes any sense.” Anders finds his fingertips insinuating themselves into Fenris’s hair, brushing it back from his temple. "It still hurts?“ He asks softly, contritely. Contrite, as he’s an accomplice now.

Fenris’ eyes crack open again at the question, uncomfortable but eased all the same by the touch. And exhausted, beyond how much his body is begging him to sleep. “Do you really want to know, if you can’t change it?”

"I can’t change your skin. But I can ease your pain, if you’d like. I offered you an elixir and the offer still stands.” Anders lets his forehead touch Fenris’s and rest there.

Fenris shakes his head, carefully, a small unintended nuzzle. “Most of the others died after the procedures. If something goes wrong, I should know.”

Anders sighs, but he nods, using the motion as an excuse to kiss the end of Fenris’s nose. "That’s reasonable, at least.“ And all the more reason he should stay close, not that he would want to do anything else.


	34. Chapter 34

Once Fenris falls asleep he remains in bed well into the morning, as motionless as the dead save his warm heart and slow breath. At some point, Carnality’s exit is only noted when Anders realizes the demon is no longer around to warm their feet. Later still, likely near noon, Dianna quietly checks in, long enough to motion for Anders to leave the room with her. Fenris doesn’t even stir at the movement, and once out the door she pushes hot tea into his hands and tells him to at least go downstairs to get some lunch, or study, or anything else. Fenris will be fine from here, he just needs rest.  
Of course, she wraps it all in a slave’s words, suggestions and polite nuance, but with the firm edges of an elder sister’s tone, that he needs to take care of himself or he might hear about it later.

Anders listens to Dianna, watching him through the vapor wafting from his tea. He drinks it readily enough. His eyes are tired, the lines on his face somehow etched a little more deeply today. "He grudges himself even this brief respite,“ he says to her. "Make sure he sleeps.” But his tone suggests he knows she will, knows that she will be checking in on him, and will likely be more effective at arguing Fenris out of any stubbornly bad ideas than he would be. "I’ll have something to eat and see if I can get started on something useful. Does Danarius keep scribner’s supplies in the library? I need a blank, bound journal.“

Dianna nods with a gentle smile, an approving one once Anders accepts her suggestion so easily. “Of course. Check the drawers under the shelf nearest the window.” And then she adds, quieter, a small tip of her head to one side, “He will likely be reading in his room for most of the day, I doubt you’ll be bothered if you want to use the desk there.”

Anders nods. His gaze falls on Dianna, her graceful, studied movements and her well-kempt hair, and feels an unexpected sadness take hold of him. Whether this is what she wants or not, she’s good at it. And the feeling of calm and stability she carries with her, willingly or asked for or not, is to his benefit, while she bears all the cost. "I will do that, then. Please have someone from the kitchen send up something to eat. I need to make the most of what daylight is left.” Scribing by mage-light is certainly possible, though it gives him a throbbing headache after a couple of hours.

“Of course.” The small affirmation and she’s gone, not in a rush but a pointed walk to head back down the stairs to send food back up. If she ever resents her duties she never lets it show. Perhaps she doesn’t, and rationalizes that she could have it far worse. The smiles and concern always seem genuine enough.

Anders heaves a sigh after she leaves. He had slept poorly. The nightmares that had kept waking him, his body sweating against Fenris and his throat filled with the weak moan of a sleeper’s scream, still echoed in his head. Reaching into the black pool to lift Fenris out of it, and finding that all his body below the neck was coated in oily blackness and hideously, bonelessly attenuated, like the slave Urge had wrung out for his blood. And Anders, screaming and crying as he tried to fix him somehow, while Danarius stood by not even acknowledging anything was wrong. A second dream of entering the laboratory to find Fenris’s upper body half wrapped in bandages, his arm amputated, and Dianna turning a spit as it roasted over an open flame. When Anders began to scream Fenris himself had argued that the arm was just no good anymore and there was no sense in wasting it.

It isn’t much longer before another slave comes by the library, silver tray in hand with more tea and hot covered soup, and bread alongside. He looks new, or at least one Anders hasn’t seen before, skin dark like rich caramel and shaggy black hair, with bright yellow eyes. And he’s quiet, a small knock at the open door to announce his silent barefoot steps, quirked smile to his lips and eyes as he finds a place to set the tray.

Anders has his work in front of him by then, the blank journal open, and Danarius’s notes from the previous day gathered and set beside it. Anders has set himself the task of transcribing it all as a means to studying it and committing it memory. Having a bound and ordered copy of his own is also likely to be valuable. When the slave enters he raises his head, takes note of the unfamiliar face and glances him over. He nods his acknowledgment as the meal is set down, scooting his inkwell a bit further out of the way.

The slave is there and gone as silently as he arrived, food set alongside Anders. He must have left, elf feet so careful on carpeting, perhaps carpeting intended for just that reason, but moments later a familiar steely grey cat hops up and wriggles into the space between Anders’ lap and his hunched arms writing on the table. “You really should eat.”

“Ah, my ever-faithful talking cat,” Anders says. He settles back in his chair and scratches Carnality’s feline head. "It’s amazing how much more wizardly I’ve become since I ended up here. Killing slaves, fucking demons… I’ve rather gone native.“ His tone drips with bleak sarcasm.

The cat’s head pops up with a loud purr, sitting straight to peer at the notes before boredly turning back and headbutting Anders’ chest. “I wasn’t aware you were in the business of processing unusable slaves yet. Unless Fenris died?” Of course, with the way he asks, Carnality is perfectly aware that the slave still sleeps.

"Processing.” Anders makes a face that fully communicates what he thinks of that word. "Danarius gave a sacrifice to Urge, in the laboratory. That slave was slaughtered for his blood, wrung out like a wet rag. I was holding Fenris’s entrails in my hands at the time.“ Anders speaks in a low voice, not wanting his words to travel beyond the walls of the room. "And what could I have done, that wouldn’t have meant letting Fenris die? Nothing. I knew it even then, and it made me feel… complicit. Of course I’d choose Fenris’s life over a stranger’s and yet…”

Carnality turns in Anders’ lap, just like a cat that can’t get comfortable, and when he sits again his tail curls neatly around his haunches. “Do you remember when I said that Urge is dangerous?”

“Yes,” Anders says, surprised to find that his voice is hoarse, his eyes wet. He looks at the tray of food but finds his appetite is gone. "And I believe it.“ guided by familiar impulse, Anders’ hand returns to the back of Carnality’s neck, scrubbing at his short fur.

"Not everything dangerous has to try to hurt you. Look at you, complaining about things that make you human.” The cat is replaced by the image of the slave that was there moments ago, if he wasn’t just a fabrication altogether, straddling Anders’ lap with his light frame and arms draped over shoulders as he leans in for a gentle kiss. But, once close enough to murmur, he adds, “You can be rid of him soon enough, if it pleases you.”

“I don’t understand.” Anders turns his head away from that offered kiss. Away, and down, not so much spurning Carnality as having no appetite even in this regard. or too much self-loathing to bear. "Should I not feel guilty? Should I not be concerned? Every day I’ve been here, circumstance or necessity has driven me closer to whatever line divides a mage from a maleficarum. And now I think I’ve finally stepped across it and what do I do but make sure all the murder and blood magic goes /smoothly/ for the sake of Danarius and my … my beloved. I don’t know myself anymore. I don’t know what to do with myself.“

Carnality lets his forehead drop to lightly butt against Anders’ temple. “I can’t tell you what to feel about it, though I think you would consider being troubled by it a good thing.” His chin tips upward, a soft brush of lips to Anders’ cheek where his mouth had been. “And might I recommend not asking for their opinions, lest you want rationalizations.”

That…. that is actually good advice. Anders mulls it over for a moment, letting it chase out some of the anguish in his head. He puts his arms around Carnality’s waist and holds him, rests his head on his chest to accept some of the offered comfort. Even knowing the demon undoubtedly has his own reasons doesn’t change that he’s generous with something Anders finds himself in need of. And he has been an oddly trustworthy presence. "Does Fenris know about the sacrifices? About what it takes to heal him, each time this is done?”

“I don’t know.” Carnality’s chin tips to one side, then, eyes downward and nose burying against hair. “He doesn’t mention it. But he knows how many it took to make him, so I doubt it would matter. A bit like surviving a tornado, I imagine.”

Anders closes his eyes, realizing how tired he is as he rests in that comfortably warm embrace. "I think I won’t mention it to him, all the same. Maker, what can I even do in the face of this relentless fucking calamity that is his world… He was screaming, in that room, under Danarius’s power. He screamed and I would’ve killed a hundred slaves to make it stop.“

A small smile curls onto Carnality’s lips outside of view, less from anything outright mischievous and more for something in his library of secrets to finally find a place where it’s needed most. Nobody else would care about what he’s about to say, or the rest of the little facts he knows, and it’s with a barely contained energy that he whispers into Anders’ hair. “Fenris suggested it long ago. That he stay awake, under the pretense of pointing out mistakes. But I imagine it would be rather hard to say anything, at that point. I wonder.” Though by the sound of it Carnality has already sussed out the point of the matter, and simply delights in hearing Anders’ mind turn.

Anders shudders violently and squeezes his eyes shut. "That idiot! He needs to have a care for himself, none of his suffering is necessary! Does he just hold onto it to feel like he’s /useful/? He.. he does, doesn’t he? He thinks that is all he is, all he has to offer anyone is his /utility/. And Danarius hardly gainsays this, and I can’t… I can’t get through to him what he’s worth, at all!” Anders hands are curled into fists at the small of Carnality’s back. "And… mistakes? Does he really go into this each time expecting that he might /die/? And no doubt, just as he told me some time ago, he thinks it would be his own failure if he did!“ Anders shifts in his chair, his eyes open again and distress etched in his features. He tries to gently coax Carnality out of his lap.

Carnality’s hips rock back, heels lifting and feet neat pointed arcs to push him back closer to Anders’ knees and give some space between them without actually getting up. And his arms slip from their perch around shoulders with the movement, elbows falling until his palms can cradle Anders’ jawline, fingertips carefully pressing along temples. “Shh, be still, and listen: he feels his suffering is necessary in payment for the suffering he believes he has caused by existing. And he feels he must not only weather it but excel by the same reasoning.”

Anders settles again, responsive to Carnality’s soothing. He looks up, stricken, frowning in concern. "But he can’t be responsible for what wasn’t his choice…” Anders trails off, his voice dwindling as he realizes that applies very well to his own situation. And however reasonable it might be, his feelings are what they are. "How do I show him a better way?“

When Carnality smiles again it’s to stifle a chuckle, his lips parting to white perfect teeth that nearly glow from under his darker skin. “You silly little man. What do you think you’ve been doing this entire time?”

"Trying, with only meagre success.” Anders’ frown turns annoyed. "And I’m not ‘little,’ pest.“

It only makes Carnality’s grin ever wider, hands slipping to grip the back edge of the chair, but it falls for his lips to part and expression to shift, thoughts drifting. “Oh I /know/, you make me /ache/.” But he settles, with a pointed sigh, the sigh of a desire demon that knows he’ll have to find someone else if he wants to fuck his brains out. “I think you do more than you know. And more than he lets on. Don’t let what they do change you, if you want to change him.”

Anders gives that some careful thought, letting the words settle in his mind before he nods. A wan smile appears on his face. "It’s… it’s been worth it. If you can even measure these things. Or maybe I should say, I don’t regret it.” He looks more restful and calm, and the urge to bolt from the room and cling to the sleeping slave in question has been banished for the moment. "He has changed me, though. I’ve never been this…attached.“

Carnality leans back until his elbows rest behind him on the edge of the desk, and this time his sigh is smaller, a little more wistful, if demons can even feel such a thing. “The things I do…” Really, that nearly felt generous. Things he’s not entirely sure he’s comfortable with, if they’re not more directly self serving.

Anders settles his hands on the demon’s hips, raising an eyebrow. He can guess at Carnality’s thoughts, just now. "Should we make out for a while so you can balance your books, so to speak? This form you’ve taken is rather fetching.”

“You like this?” Carnality sits up, as much as he can in such an obvious and precarious pose, and down to the gentle curve of his chest to his hips to survey his work. “I made it for you.” Well, not completely true, more he threw it on as an afterthought and Anders is the first to see it. Close enough.

“You’re sweet,” Anders says, and he half-smiles, thumbs pressing in on the ridge of those hips as if to test Carnality’s craftsmanship. With his thoughts turned away from self-recrimination, he feels his stomach rumble. The food on the table smells good to him again.

The shift in thought isn’t lost on the demon in the slightest, and his head rolls back to glare sidelong at the slowly cooling meal. His body shifts, not in shape so much as finer details falling away and crumbling to Fenris, with that all too familiar growl in his voice. “You really should eat, or Dianna will have words with both of us.”

“I wouldn’t want to upset Dianna,” Anders says. Fenris’s voice sends a paradoxically warm shiver down his spine. "You’ll have to leave my lap for a few minutes.“

“Oh, of course I do.” If Carnality looked somewhat disappointed before he all but pouts now, and sinks off of Anders’ lap until Fenris’ hips thud lightly onto the carpet, his arms locked and propped behind him in a very relaxed un-Fenrislike position.

Anders can’t really hide his amusement at that, breaking into a faint grin while he pulls the tray of food over to the table’s edge. "Don’t be too put out, I’m hoping that once I’ve eaten you can help me with an experiment.”

The pout doesn’t fade so easily as all that, and Carnality just raises an eyebrow warily. “I can guess, see how long I can go without food? Here I thought you would be done with experiments for a while.”

“Actually I wanted to find out what it’s like to fuck myself. I’ve never been as much of a size queen as everyone who’s ever dated me, I was wondering if my dick is really that exciting or if maybe my personality had some merits after all.”

With a quick flicker of interest and a shimmer the nameless slave is back in Fenris’ place, Carnality leaning forward by a couple inches. “Would you guess I’ve never been asked that before?”

“Really? Never? I didn’t think I was that much more of a vain pervert than the rest of the world.” Anders tears off some bread, butters it, and munches on it.

“/Never./ But then, I was never open to much suggestion before living here. Little did I know, you’re so much more entertaining this way.”

Anders starts on the soup, glad to find it still warm, if not steaming. "I should ask, is there anything you’d like? And what is your contract like, with Danarius? What does he pay you with?“

Carnality tsks with a gentle shake of his head. “You know my terms already, you’re just expecting that it’s more complicated than it is. If you can’t figure it out I’ve lost all faith in you.”

"No, I’m just trying to figure out why anyone would think those terms were -bad-. Do Templars just h– Oh, there, I’ve answered my own question.” Anders smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Seeing as how we normally kill you afterwards, not bad at all.”

“You know you get a lot more sex out of us if you let us live.”

Carnality drops onto his back, a hand waving through the air lazily. “Find someone, seduce them, feed and find someone else to feed on until one of you finally hunts us down. I grew tired, and Templars do a very thorough job of warning your young away. For a little more work to entertain you all I get fed every day, and I’m safe. And thus I’ve stayed.”

“And would you be perfectly content to kill me, if you thought you might get a meal that way?” Anders is curious, though the potential answer would certainly have an impact on the mood.

“It doesn’t benefit me anymore. If you were stranded: would you rather one big, luxurious meal on the first day or a smaller meal every day, for as long as you stayed on good terms with someone?”

“If I were in command of my senses, I’d choose the second. But if I were already starving…” Anders sits back in his chair, dipping a heel of bread into what remains of his soup.

“Fortunately, there is always someone willing to fuck me in this city, if not this house alone. Are you suggesting to lock me in a room and we can all find out what happens?”

“No, I’m suggesting the opposite, actually.”

Carnality props back up onto his elbows. “And why would I want to kill you if you’re keeping me fed, as I’ve done for decades?”

“That was the point, you not wanting to kill anyone. You’ve been a friend. I wouldn’t want you to suffer.” Anders pushes his tray away at last, then kicks his chair back from the table. He saunters over to a velvet-upholstered couch with a beckoning tilt of his head towards Carnality.

That look alone rolls Carnality to his front so he can pull into a crouch and then straighten to follow. Midway between them he shifts again, a mirage of haze clouding Anders’ vision momentarily, which then lifts to a sharp image of himself reflected back. “And here I was settling for being a cat.”

It is actually a bit strange at first, looking at himself. A bit stranger than he had expected, and it shows in his barely visible blush. "I’m fond of you and I want to keep you fed. And this kind of shameful, self indulgent perversion is likely best saved for when Fenris is indisposed.“ His smile is inviting, though touched with self-deprecating humor and a little awkward shyness as he sits down on the couch.

“Are you so sure of that?” Carnality smiles with Anders’ lips and now he answers with Anders’ voice, straddles a lap again with Anders’ thighs and when they kiss there’s twice the faint scruff between their chins. “You mean to say you don’t want to watch him getting fucked by you while he sucks you off? It certainly sounds delightful to me.”

"And this is why I’m fond of you. You have the best ideas.” The image Carnality puts in his head is enough to banish some of the awkwardness and replace it with stirrings of arousal. He puts his arms around Carnality’s waist, his waist, and feels the solidity of his own body in a way he never has before. The mouth he’s kissing has firm, warm lips and a surprisingly gentle, though agile tongue. "Maybe he would want to watch us. We could make him guess which of us is me.“ He never draws back far from their necking, and his world is a close, warm place shaded with ash blond hair. His hands seek out all the fastenings of his/Carnality’s robes, eager to slip under the fine cloth and touch skin. Somewhere in his mind it dawns on him that he might possibly have genuinely pleased some of his lovers, and that making out with him could be, potentially, hypothetically, a positive experience.

Carnality for the most part mirrors Anders’ movements, a quirked but gentle smile on his lips, partly from the fun of it and partly by necessity of their similar clothes. "Oh I imagine he’d know faster than either of us would.” Possibly from the faint hints of flush on Anders’ cheeks, or the smile on the other’s lips, or their movements together. The demon copy spreads Anders’ robe with careful movements, hands tuned to the details of work and palms flat over skin as they draw over his chest and slide down to settle along his hips. Carnality leans in to kiss the exposed dip of flesh outlining the collarbone, and down to his chest. His breath is hot, genuine enough with his erection strong between his legs, and his chin faintly prickling the skin his lips meet.

Anders pushes Carnality’s robes off his shoulders, his hands exploring the column of his neck and then sliding to his chest. The pads of his thumbs graze over small, tight nipples and he can feel familiar sparse, wiry hair under his palms. He leans back as Carnality’s head dips down, pulse quickening from those kisses at his throat and moving lower. He spreads his knees a bit, hard inside his breeches, and he reaches down to open them himself.

With a warm sigh tickling Anders’ chest Carnality flicks his tongue over a nipple, then blows, teasing at the nub of flesh. He gives it a small apologetic kiss as his hips slide from their straddled perch and he sinks between spread thighs, drawing his lips and the smallest hints of bristle and wisps of hair along skin. Without further flirting around his lips finally land on Anders’ freed cock, pillowed against the rounded underside of the fat head, gently sucking the kiss and tongue darting across the tender slip of skin there.

Anders grunts at that kiss, at the sight of Carnality wearing his own face as he starts to suck him, The novelty of it, or maybe the not-wholy-expected gorgeousness, has the tension in him tightening in sudden jerks. His cock flexes at the root, but not enough to lift it from Carnality’s lips, and the first heavy drop of his precum wells from the tip seconds later. Anders threads his fingers through Carnality’s perfect mimicry of his own straw-colored hair, and slips the small tie free that holds longer locks away from the sides of his face.

Carnality smiles with Anders’ lips, and tips his chin to let them slip over the thin slit. His fingers splay around the base, holding the shaft steady and palm cupped carefully over balls, and he draws a long suck from that slit. The few drops of precum are lapped away before he relaxes and lets his mouth sink, enveloping the head, and halfway down the shaft, and with a groan of approval farther until his lips press to his own fingers. For a few moments he lingers, a gentle swallowing suction as if he could just drink in everything that sums up Anders’ cock, before reluctantly drawing back up to bob back down across the shaft, and again, lips puckered tight.

Anders throat tightens up, hitching around his moan. His thighs and belly feel almost as tight as Carnality swallows him, and color floods his cheeks and lips. A few long sucks and he puts a hand on Carnality’s shoulder, squeezing. “Slow down,” he says. “Let’s make this last.”

Carnality certainly seems to agree well enough, lips mercifully loosening as they slide back up to the tip, barely linger and slip away to kiss the edge of Anders’ bellybutton. He draws back up, kisses along Anders’ chest less lingering in their ascent, just so he can match his lips to their twin, hips rocked forward between Anders’ legs to press them together without grinding. “You really should taste yourself sometime.”

“Mmm, I agree.” Anders unfastens the belt still holding Carnality’s robes in place. He pulls it away and lets the cloth fall to the floor at his feet, then strokes his fingertips along Carnality’s naked back. He rolls his hips forward obligingly enough, but then slips his hand between them, cupping Carnality’s erection, hefting and squeezing him. “My turn?”

“Here I was worried you’d never ask.” Carnality lets his voice drift off, a soft echo common to his voice but not when it sounds like Anders’ words. When he moves there’s a small grind forward of his hips, then he draws back carefully, cock slipping from Anders’ tug so he can sink back against the opposite end of the couch. His arms drape across the arm and back of the cushions, bare thighs splayed and inviting, just like the smile on his lips, naked the way only a demon can be when he considers clothing a hindrance and makes it vanish entirely instead of bothering to undress any further.

Is his waist really that lean? Have his eyes ever smouldered that way? All Anders is certain of is that even wearing his likeness, Carnality is seductive. He spreads his palms on the demon’s smooth inner thighs and glides them up to converge at his loins, cupping his balls, gripping his shaft. His tongue traces his lips as he bends down to suck and lets his own self-consciousness move aside in favor of lust and instinct and decadent pleasure. Carnality’s cock is thick enough that he can feel a faint ache in his jaw as he takes him in, but the tip is so solid and heavy on his tongue that he craves more regardless. His head pushes down until his mouth is filled, his throat almost breached and his tongue sliding and straining under the fat underbelly of his shaft.

Carnality’s cock throbs under Anders’ tongue, the tip soft with it’s plump taught skin, shaft hot with arousal. The demon doesn’t emphasize anything or cut corners, simply gives Anders every last detail of a reflection. The trail of dirty blonde hair that travels down from his bellybutton to neatly encircle his cock, the looser skin at the throat of his shaft no matter how hard his erection, the faint spot of a freckle hidden at the base near the short mess of curls. Even the taste of his precum, dripping along the back of his tongue.

It’s delectable. Anders lets his eyes shut and his senses flood with the taste and smell of his own skin, the clean salt tang and subtle bitterness of the precum coating his agile tongue. The way that cock, his cock, fills his mouth so perfectly. The way that loose skin is like velvet at first, then something finer when it’s wet against his lips. He sucks voraciously. His mind flickers back through scattered remembrances of the week he’d spent with Fenris by the coast, the freedom they’d had with one another, and even in the midst of this he feels a pang of longing.

A groan escapes Carnality’s lips, long and low and full of ill-hidden genuine pleasure. His hips rock upward, just a little, enough to jostle his cock in deep in Anders’ throat as his fingers brush away stray strands of hair blocking his view. A brief pause at what he sees, but whether he notices Anders’ thoughts or simply enjoying the view is unclear. Either way, he doesn’t mention it. “Well, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself. Imagining how much he loves to choke on you?”

Anders swallows hard around that thick intrusion in his throat, his concentration given over to keeping his gag reflex subdued. His tongue flexes against the inches of shaft in his mouth, and after a lengthy moment he draws back, panting for breath, wiping a thread of glistening drool from his open lips. "Thinking of how much he likes it when I go down on him.“ His smile is a bit wry, apologetic or maybe only bashful. "And how fucking good it feels to make him moan.” And all the intolerable distance between them, with Fenris entire rooms away.

If he didn’t notice the pained edge to Anders’ words before Carnality does now, or at least no longer cares about hiding it. He sits up, hands to Anders’ shoulders to straighten him too, and kisses him. It isn’t too sweet, firm and no sudden retreat the way Fenris would, and not too deep to be overpowering with this mood in the air. And maybe that consideration makes it sweet after all. Carnality leans forward, pushes Anders back against the couch, their kiss and their bodies warm together with bare skin on skin and their arousal pressed together. Only then does he finally break away. “Then do you want me to fuck you, or do you want to know what it’s like when /you/ fuck /him/?”

Anders lets Carnality take the lead. He’s pliant to the guidance of his hands, the pressure of his hips, while his body moves with more than just passive acceptance under Carnality’s touch. He lays back on the couch, arms wrapping around Carnality and embracing the warmth between them. "I was thinking of taking you on your knees, at first. But now I think I’m more in the mood to be under you.“

The hints of a smile glint from under Carnality’s blonde, familiar hair as he dips closer, forehead tipping to one side as he lightly sucks at Anders’ neck. The demon’s hands sink down along Anders’ skin, nails tipped to leave light trails as if they were still claws, and come to rest and firmly grip his thighs. “Now where would be the fun in that anyway, unless you can feel just how big you are.” 

Anders lets loose a sighing moan, arching under the light raking of Carnality’s claws. His thighs spread readily enough, and he half-smiles, a touch of self-deprecation in the twist of his lips. "I feel like I should ask you to be gentle,” he says.

Carnality draws his hands down to lift Anders’ legs, just enough to slink his hips between them, cock hot and pillowed against balls. The nails lift, a quick turn of the fingers to the pads, a softer touch that cups Anders’ ass and lifts it closer. His head raises, gentle brush of scruff playing at skin with the movement. “Oh dove, what do you take me for?” Without waiting for an answer his hips turn, an almost unnoticed deft little movement and his, Anders’, hard cock nudges against tight bud. The touch is as light as a kiss, then leans, heavier until the opening gives way, Carnality’s erection as smooth as oiled silk as he sinks forward.

“A– ahhhhh…!” Whatever Anders was about to quip in reply is drowned out in a long moan. He watches his face as the demon sinks into him, sees that slight concerned furrow in his brow as the tight heat and friction start to reach him, sees his pupils dilate with the pleasure he knows he must feel. Anders’ cock is so hard it aches as Carnality penetrates him. He feels himself give way to the pressure, he relaxes that tight ring, so seduced by the silken blunt tip that’s entering him. And then he stretches, stretches until he burns, and a bit beyond that. He clenches his teeth, drawing one arm across his own eyes to try and hide his face, drawn with a mix of pain and desperate pleasure.

The forced push doesn’t stop until Anders is full and Carnality’s balls press against his ass. Then it slows but doesn’t completely stop, a rocking that distracts the body from how much aching it could be doing if he halted entirely. And with Anders’s expression half-hidden the demon licks at his neck, lightly pecks kisses at the edges of those lips, neither an apology so much as an oddly teasing sort of comforting. “Didn’t expect so much of yourself?”

Anders draws his knees towards his chest, his heels resting against the back of Carnality’s hips while he rocks along with those almost-thrusts, feeling each one like a pulse of pressure against the most sensitive places inside him. "/Maker…/“ His voice is strained, a near whimper, but sweetened with urgency. His thoughts flicker briefly back to his first time underneath another man, though he’d been on his belly that time, the enchanter’s short beard scrubbing between his shoulderblades, a small rain of kisses that made his heart melt. ”…I could come from just this,“ he breathes. He could, and he almost wants to, the way each rock of Carnality’s hips leaves him aching for the next, the way the next slow push is always sweeter than he could imagine no matter how much he anticipates it, how steady and easy the rhythm.

“Not yet…” Though that could always entail simply more time spent like this, Anders rather novelly exploring himself, and Carnality lets the sentence trail off. His hands raise up to Anders’ legs, take some strain off them holding that position as his hips draw back, the gentle flare of his cockhead teasing at Anders’ ass, a couple short strokes to toy with the entrance before he sinks in again and stretches it wide.

Carnality’s thrusts are sure and slick and deep, and Anders can feel his toes curling, his fingers seeking for something to grab onto. His own cock is rigid and arched over his belly, dripping, but he doesn’t reach for himself however badly he craves it. There’s more indulgence in his moan now than strain, each motion, his fullness, becoming something to luxuriate in. It isn’t all the knowledge that he’s being taken by his own doppelganger, but the realization that he’s in the hands of a partner who has resolved to utterly, thoroughly fuck him.

Familiar lips lean close to kiss at Anders’ bare neck, mouth parted and tongue drawing over heartbeat and stubble. Carnality is loose in his movements, the soft smacks and puckers of his lips and wet tongue emphasized as he rocks both of their bodies. The movement, his touches are restrained but no less for it, the same movements between two lovers that have passed lust and fallen deeply into finding every detail of each other. 

Anders is panting for breath, his mouth open, wet lips grazing against Carnality’s temple when they can. He has his palms flat on his double’s back, running over muscles that bunch and flex with every motion, over skin as smooth as polished marble. His body learns the rhythm Carnality sets, and he moves under him, hips lifting into each plunging thrust, spine arching with each dragging stroke inside him.

It isn’t only how Carnality’s dick buries deep into Anders’ ass, or the way the round plump tip of it grinds against that vulnerable core, but the hot sparks of pleasure it all drives. The way Anders relaxes against him, swept up in his pleasure, and it makes Carnality snarl a groan. He dares buck his hips harder, or just begins to really lose himself to it, fingers desperate and pressing against skin, hot breath highlighting the hints of sweat between them with a tickle. 

"So good…” The words come out a breathy whisper while Anders nibbles at Carnality’s ear. It’s more than just his hips that move along with Carnality’s fucking. He tightens around his double’s shaft at the apex of every thrust, holding on, grinding his own core against the solid presence inside him and gripping him as if he never wants it to leave. And then, bereft when the ridge of Carnality’s cockhead is tugging at the ring of his anus again, he relaxes, opens, begging to be filled again. His own tip slaps against his belly with a wet smack, thin threads of his precum tethering it to the puddle forming around his navel. His shaft is throbbing, his plump head aching for friction, but that ache is as exquisite as its fulfillment could ever be.

Carnality just moans his response, first against Anders’ neck and then mouth as he crashes their lips together. Sheer pleasure radiates from them like heat and Carnality basks in it, coaxes and begs it, thrusts against Anders’ ass, balls shoved against skin as hips meet hips. When he lifts a hand from a thigh he pries it off reluctantly, the grip leaving a cool spot and soft red marks in it’s wake. A single finger places on Anders’ erection between them, the delicate slip of skin just under the swell of the tip, and presses it down until the slit butts against the stomach under it, and the teasing motion of that skin from their sex.

It’s perfect and just barely enough at the same time. Anders’s moans gain this subtle, desperate hitch, and he’s not just rocking under Carnality but squirming. For a few long moments he’s clinging to Carnality, the air between them hot and stifling and the precipice of his climax looming somewhere ahead, and then he realizes he’s past it. That glut of sensation from his core and that teasing friction at his tip coalesce into one pleasure, and barely enough becomes a staggering abundance. He has the span of several heartbeats to feel that wash of pleasure before it sweeps his feet out from under him, and his eyes roll shut, and his body bucks under Carnality, and the channel in his cock swells and pulses and his jism spurts out onto his belly and his chest, thick and plentiful.

After a few more rough, steady shoves against Anders’ ass Carnality slows and finally halts, his own orgasm milking the planted fat cock. His finger draws up, the path under it throbbing, and his palm curls around the shaft to force Anders’ erection still while his thumb swirls over the head once, then presses towards the center. The finger teases the slit there, cum spilling between them and each fresh wave of it spreading that opening for Carnality to rub the inner edges, prolonging Anders’ climax even as it threatens to be far too much.

Anders can feel the burst of warm wetness inside him, the tugging pulse in Carnality’s cock as the demon comes inside him. It feels like an echo of the relentless throbs wracking him, driving more and more cum from his slit and more incoherent, heedless moans from his throat. He can feel the pad of Carnality’s finger teasing at his slit, coaxing his climax on and on until his core is aching with it, and his abused slit sends sharp thrills through him that he’s helpless against.

After toying the edges of too much, too long, the tickling pressure on Anders’ cock eases, and Carnality relaxes to simply rest the weight of his palm, warm and comforting, along the shaft. The harsh jolts of energy subside, a tide calming to faint laps against the shore, and they’re left a jumbled pile of warmth and limbs. Their lips part, the same full delicate skin left pink and sensitive to the cool air, and the demon smile on what looks like Anders’ mouth in a mirror. “Everything you hoped you would be?”

“Better,” Anders answers with a slurred murmur. His limbs feel deliciously heavy, and he eases, still loosely holding onto his double, managing to give him a few lazy kisses. His mind feels refreshingly quiet, at last. The weight of Carnality resting on top of him makes him feel even more comfortable and secure, and he finds himself longing to be back in bed, taking another shot at some restful slumber.

“Good.” Carnality’s reply sounds just as self satisfied as he’s pleased with Anders’ answer. With a slow stretch forward of his arms he pulls his hips away and sits up, fingertips drawing along the chest below him as he straightens. All of the spilled cum between them is swept away with a bit of demon magic, along with the drip or two that managed to find the couch, but leaving the rest of their fucking intact. The heat of the room, the sweat of exertion, hair still a mess and clothes still littered along the floor. Save Carnality’s, which were never on the floor to begin with, and he leans back until his elbows prop lazily against the opposite arm of the couch. 

Anders rolls his shoulders into the couch as Carnality pulls his softening cock free of him. It’s not at all a bad feeling. He’s content to lay there for a long handful of minutes, in the light that filters through the gauzy under-curtains. The manor feels peaceful, and even knowing how deceptive that can be, Anders accepts the pleasant facade it offers, for now. It’s with lazy reluctance that he untangles his legs from Carnality’s and puts his feet on the floor, gathering his robes up in a bundle to at least cover his privates for the trip back to bed. "I’m going to get some genuine rest before I start the transcription,“ he says. "Thank you. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to be fucked senseless.”

“Of course, I’m always happy to oblige.” The voice is no longer an uncanny copy of Anders’ voice echoed back to him but Carnality again, and once he turns back there is once more a demon on the couch with the thin slips of cloth he always has on. “Go on to bed, I can sense your pet missing you.”

Anders pauses before he turns to go, planting a kiss on Carnality’s lips first. "Join us if you get lonely,“ he offers. "And he’s n…” Anders sighs. "Alright, he rather is, but maker’s breath I need him.“

Carnality just chuckles at that, content smile to the lips Anders kisses and eyes half lidded. “I think I’ll leave you two alone for a while, he doesn’t need to be watched anymore.” As Anders draws away a cat is in the demon’s place, a brief flicker of a change, and he stretches his paws across the couch cushions. “…and I have a lap to find.” At that the cat hops down, and trots out the door.


End file.
